It was a hot day last Saturday, one of the hottest so far this spring. One of those days where even after the sun has set, you can still feel the coax of a lingering warmth vapourising into the sweaty air.
At 8pm, the scene in the city was one of confusion: the unlikely combination of race-goers and Halloween. There are three types of women on a night like this: those in cocktail dresses and fascinators, those in something slutty and bloody, and those who look like an average Saturday night. I find myself in this third group - not dressed for anything. My friend is having a last minute birthday celebration at a rooftop bar.
A few jugs of sangria (and something with sloe gin) later, the weather takes a turn for the worst and the sky splits into flashes of white. There is no thunder, the rain is too loud and the space beneath the umbrellas too crowded for anyone to hear it.
We find an expensive cocktail bar too wait out the storm. We make flimsy paper cranes out of the napkins.