Plastic palms, pink flamingos, cocktails and toothpaste.

Dear Diary,

I was debating over whether to refer to you with an upper case 'D'. I was torn between personifying you and throwing you at the wall. Keep my secret or you're kindling!

It's always so awkward with you. Stilted, one sided conversation veering into corners and curves and w.....isms too dubious to mention. When I imagine meeting you, I conjure the image of a smoke filled sleaze bar (they're looking into franchising). There's a token jukebox in the corner, beer (and ...s) stains on the floor. A pool table. A broken bar stool. Plastic palms and pink flamingos. Too much hairspray and facial hair. Is that Tom Selleck?

Cocktail. Fun times. Film.

I remember when Cocktail the film came out and the world went crazy for the soundtrack, THAT guy who was in it and for the next few years; 'Hippy Hippy Shake' would haunt dance floors and backyard barbeques. It was 1991. Father turned 30. A party was arranged. He made a grand entrance (in a towel). This is what happens when guests arrive early. Speakers had been placed around the yard, polluting the air with early 90s classics such as 'Addicted to Love', 'The Horses', 'I Touch Myself', 'Black or White', and 'Don't Go Now' (actually, please hurry off and take said song with you).

It was a warm February night. 'Kokomo' was playing, there were stars in the sky and the fridge was filled with food and fun. It was on this night I took my first sip of Tropicana.

Yours,
Agnes J.