Don't Eat Cheese Before Bed

"Effin' hell," shouted Pickle (he was visiting London on vacation and believed he had taken to the vernacular) as Proudy's head thumped to the burnished brass-accented oak bar and rolled through a multicolored gaggle of parasol-sprouting cocktail glasses, scattering akimbo their umbrellature like a drunken stagehand lumbering through the set of Mikado. 

The rest of Miss Hoare danced a jig, sporting and sprinkling, as Palula cried "Oh, Oh, Oh!" and applause thundered  when the dog-headed concierge ran lightly away into the lobby of the Wentworth Hotel, machete-handed and a dripping head held high like an Olympic torch.

I drank the cocktails from the oak: Cosmopolitan, Screwdriver, Vesper Lynd and something with olives. Palula joined me to bob-the-olive in a deep puddle of gin but I couldn't get a bite on the smooth skin so I kissed Palula instead, biting the skin of her lower lip.

Her mouth was sugary wet and we sucked each other like teenagers as I squinted left  (one eye is best in such situations) and saw that Proudy had found her head to join the Parasols in a rousing chorus of Poor Wandering One.