In search of the ultimate night out in what is essentially a very pretty fishing village barred to the world of the under-55s, Liz & Nat stride into party mode with some festive beverages whose principal ingredients may or may not have included tea and grey water collected each day from the trawlers. Not even a coquettish sipping technique would save us from this one; this bar was called "The Dream", and apparently we were living it.
Treading well into REM territory, Liz decides to consult this t-shirt clad oracle behind the bar, who sheds his ethereal light on the apparent discotheque dearth. Notice his protective demeanour toward this perspex-encased decorative bottle of beer; forget becoming intoxicated by the mere smell of alcohol, Sete's residents have only to be reminded of its existence & a glimpse or two of flesh-coloured stocking is in the bag.
Exiting The Dream and entering instead into a terminal state of Hallucination, we are transported via this flying formica tabletop into a hellish grotto masquerading as a jazz bar. As the only occupants of said grotto, we are free to do as we please...
"As we please" apparently translates for Nat into something approximating "Let's upend our skinny drinks over one another in an attempt to wake from this neon stupor". Observing that gin alone has not done the trick, Nat spices the mix with some of her still-grey-water-tainted saliva. Alas, not even this local staple proves to be the antidote...
Finally feeling the rumblings of wakefulness, Liz dashes to this Kubrick-inspired mirage toilet in order to banish "The Dream" Cocktail of Impaired Sanity and so the reverie itself. No amount of panel-beating will return our faces from this state until well into the next day...
Among the many things learnt throughout the evening, it has at least become clear to us why the pre-past-life French seem rooted to an invisible light rail track on the footpath; they are just trying to stay the fuck on cloud nine.
