Friday night in Dalston. I never normally go east, I can’t really deal with it. It’s not just the hipsters; when I hear of people going out in Brick Lane, or Hoxton or Shoreditch, I make a judgment, something connected to a dim hostile world of art criticism and contemporary music. I don’t want people to make that judgment about me.
But for sometime my friend Evi has been gently insinuating that this is narrow minded, and so tonight we are going out in Dalston. A big part of the incentive is that we’ve noticed our lives becoming rather sedate in the past few months. A lot of quiet Sunday walks, theatre and dinner parties that end before midnight. In reaction to this, tonight we’re going to something called the ‘Twat Boutique’.
Evi found it and introduced it with, ‘This looks great! It’s an east London hipster lesbian night that happens once a month.’
The appeal is a complex helix of attempting a phase where tawdry interaction with men plays a smaller role, and gesturing to blurred memories of life at university. I think the term ‘boutique’ also has something to do with it.
I have an image of a corrugated warehouse space by an abandoned rail track, house music echoing off the tin walls while lots of alluring women in black and denim sip murky drinks at a long bar or dance silently. Perhaps a bit a day glow to colour the scene.
In reality, the Boutique is like any small bar with a smaller, darker dance floor downstairs. It’s not exactly buzzing when we arrive – but then we rather preemptively swing up post-curry at 10pm.
‘There are a lot of men about,’ I say looking round.
‘Hmm. Yes.’ Evi agrees. ‘Perhaps it’s going more main stream.’
The dance floor is dark. Two of the DJs friends who are dancing very close to the sound system, a woman is crouching on the floor taking photos, and a pale man in a white T shirt is sitting alone on a stool with his eyes closed, grinning.
‘Wow.’ Is all I can think to say. I don’t want Evi to think I’m not impressed; she has a prenatural ability to make the best of whatever situation we end up in and is already dancing in a large vacant space making speculations about the DJ. I dance a bit too. The floor fills up a bit. All the other dancers seems to be in couples. It’s too loud to talk, although I occasionally realise Evi is trying to say things to me.
At 11.15 we have to go. Our last train is at 11.35.
‘It was really starting to fill up at the end!’ Evi says as we walk up the street.
‘Next time we should stay late and get a taxi.’ I say.
‘Totally!’ she says. ‘We need to dance more! This was a good scoping out of the place, next time we can do it properly.’
We get on the train back to Hampstead. ‘Well,’ Evi says, ‘I’ll see you for the theatre on Monday… We could have dinner at mine first? I’ve bought some port.’