I had a whole bunch of visuals of my trip to see Skinny Bitch. Unfortunately, they are all in my head. You may be sure that I was greeted with coloured chalk drawings, as before.

I should explain where SB lives. She has a lovely, heritage Victorian home in what has become the ghetto. Colourful characters abound on her street, although her house is fairly safe from crime because it is directly across the street from those ever-vigilant firefighters.

And by colourful? I mean mostly chronically drunk or stoned. The younger ones are the stoners. I’m not talking soft drugs like pot here. One guy was lurching down the middle of the street, his arm, and only one arm, rising with each lurch, all zombie-like. You could tell he was baked, fried, and not with it at all. In addition, he found walking very painful. I imagined that he had gotten beaten up pretty badly, or even hit by a car, considering he walked in the middle of the street.

Then there was Margot. It was kind of obvious Margot was into the booze. You don’t even have to be able to smell it on them. Old habitual boozers have strange facial expressions, have you noticed? Gotta be from some form of brain damage. SB leaves her smokes outside on the verandah, and Margot helps herself in a pinch. SB and I had gone inside to exclaim over something or other, leaving our humongous wine glasses outside. When I looked out the window, lo and behold, there was Margot, helping herself to SB’s glass of wine. Bizarre.

A bit later that weekend, Party Guy appears. He’s an older guy, so a boozer, and what does he see while staggering across the street? Yes! Two women relaxing on the verandah with refreshing beverages. He started to make a beeline for our location. I headed him off by telling him that this here was a girls only party. Sorry, Party Guy. We just didn’t think you would fit in with all our girly stuff, plus we knew you would guzzle all the wine, and probably put some kind of wino secret glyphs to mark the place as one that has wine. Also? We suspected from his condition that the prospect of puke was highly likely.

There were a few others, but the stars of the shows were the firemen. They spent lots of time standing in the open truck bay, washing and polishing the vehicles, as well as getting sweaty in the workout room, which coincidentally, was very visible from our vantage point.

You do realize how much women love to watch men work, don’t you? Especially when they get sweaty. It was heavenly to behold.

When I left, SB gave me a big kiss on the lips and told me she loved me more than her shoes.

I can die happy now.