It was all going well, until...

On Saturday morning I woke at 7am. I was on a chair, in the waiting room, of the emergency department at the Royal Adelaide Hospital.

On Friday night, I had made no plans, except to see a one-hour comedy show as part of the Adelaide Fringe. As comedy goes, this was disappointingly mild, a poorly executed mish-mash of mediocre stand-up and obnoxious pre-filmed sketches. The gathered crowd left as quickly as it had arrived, and by 8pm an old friend and I found ourselves at the end of our schedule. After a quick coffee, it was decided to get a drink, somewhere else, somewhere far away from the bustle of the festival scene.

However, we didn't quite get to escape the festive spirit which March (the festival month) in South Australia (officially 'The Festival State') provides. For on our way we spotted a curious, unfamiliar room, named only by its address, located somewhere just next to the beaten track. Peeking inside, we saw warm crimson walls, a few slightly confronting sketches, and a bar serving boutique drinks out of an ice-filled coffin. We asked if we could have two lagers. We were asked, in turn, whether we had seen the play. Looking left, we discovered that the bar was in fact merely a front for a theatre located deeper inside. Of course, we hadn't seen the play, but we were welcomed nonetheless.

The next round was mine. Upon ordering, I was asked, 'are you an artist?' Taken aback, I meekly replied, 'well, I do fancy myself as a writer.' The girl behind the bar enthusiastically replied, 'a writer!' Luckily for me, she didn't ask any questions about what I might ever have written, or where I might ever have been published. What she did do was introduce me to the play's writer - 'he's a writer too!' The girl behind the bar was an actress. 'You have to come back and see the play,' she demanded. 'And then we can go for a drink afterwards.'

And from there on in, the beer magically became cheaper.

We kept drinking. Before long, two DJs set up speakers in the corner. The steady sound of familiar tunes permeated the room. Then began the dancing. The girl behind the bar took me by the arm, and had me twirl her around. From this quiet beginning, the night raged. A few rounds of introductions, more than a few rounds of drinks, and suddenly we were crashing the after-party of a play we hadn't even seen.

The girl was flirtatious, and I was one of the few people there she didn't know. And yet for all the generosity of her affections, it did seem some of her glances were meant only for me. We moved closer, and then further apart. And then closer again. As I went to get another drink, she moved across and told her colleague that I was, indeed, an artist. I peered at her questioningly. Smiling, she reached out and rubbed my hair, from the back of my neck to the tip of my glasses, and cheekily explained, 'the drinks are cheaper that way.'

I excused myself to the bathroom. As I was about to walk out, I saw my friend tripped over. It was clearly only an accident, but he was cut badly. I rushed to get help, and with another happy customer took him to the front of the room. After several minutes of communal panic, the bar staff called emergency.

At 2am, I left this magic party to ride in the front seat of an ambulance.

Of course, I had also been drinking. I was able to tell the paramedics my friend's name, his address, his date of birth. They let me follow them into the room where they were to take tests. I sat next to him while they went to find a doctor. With the pressure of the moment over, I began to feel quite seedy. I leaned down and let go of some of my red wine into the wastepaper basket next to me.

When the doctor arrived, he quickly spotted my rather unpleasant effort. I was removed and planted in a chair in the waiting room, where I promptly fell asleep.

I woke, as I might have mentioned, at 7am. I was dishevelled and slightly off-balance, but I still managed to get myself up and find a nurse. I made sure my friend was okay. His stitches would only be in for a week, and he'd been given tablets for the pain. I caught the bus home at 8.03am.

--

And sure, I'll be a little bashful, and more than a little embarrassed. But tonight, I'm going to go back, and actually see the play. And see if her offer still stands. At least I'll have a story to tell.