The Warm Up Café has closed - indefinitely. The owner promises to start it up again soon in different premises.
Bad news, as the old place was at the end of my street. Unless it moves into my block. Which is unlikely. But one never knows. I may offer my apartment. Its not as if I use it much anyway. In fact I was often accused of spending more time at Warm Up than at home! I may have just stumbled accidentally on a solution. *sips tea and smiles with smug expression*
Meanwhile, my friends are scattered around Funchal, like busy ants on the hunt, trying to find an alternative venue for our precious soirees.
Another bone of contention at the moment is my effort in trying to make a success of the restaurant. It leaves me frustrated at not having the financial backing necessary to take a huge leap forward. We've also recently lost two key members of staff.
But, on the music front, the situation is rosy. Last night, The Hole In One Pub was an absolute gem of a gig.
The crowd were boisterous and appreciative and I gave it my all. Two and a half hours of playing and singing later, I reluctantly shut down the equipment - much to the indignation of the audience. My brother's attendance made a hell of a difference, as always. His singing both pleased and surprised the crowd and after four songs bro' left the stage to a tumultuous round of applause. We went on a bar crawl until 6am.
The last couple of hours bro' and I spent in the Space Rocket Club. For the benefit of the uninitiated, this club is a place where lots of ladies wearing little more than smiles, dance around poles (as in fireman's poles, not as in Polish men...come to think of it I heard the odd "cześć kochanie"... whatever that means). Anyway, I digress.
|The scene was something like this, I think, though I can't be sure |
as I wasn't looking. Honest!
Betty, a Colombian friend who also happens to work at said club, (not as a dancer, as barmaid) was kept busy shooing away her eager, scantily-clad and heavily made-up colleagues from us. Waving her arms wildly and saying in her Spanish accent "they are my friends.Customers but not customers!"
Perplexed by Betty's contradicting statement, we carried on sipping our beers and wondering what would happen if we had wanted to be "real" customers. Betty wouldn't have let us, I know. The surreal situation felt like being in a gentlemen's club with our Mother as chaperon.