Another Friday Night in 101

Reykjavík is so small that sometimes it feels just like living in a tiny village in Welsh Snowdonia, except you have all the benefits of a capital city; cinemas, bars, restaurants, litter, homeless people etc.

Last night the city felt particularly tiny. Perhaps that's because I didn't venture outside the perimeters of Kaffibarinn, or perhaps it's because every conversation I had, I'd had a million times before; every person I saw, I'd seen a million times before; every drink I drank, I'd drunk a million times before. Panicking that I had bored of djamming prematurely, I switched from beers to Sex on the Beaches (classy, I know) and decided that maybe I was just temporarily bored of the beautiful, strong, special Icelanders. I spotted some English people in the corner and went to introduce myself. Nope. They were fucking boring too. There's only so many times I can discuss the odds on seeing a) the northern lights b) a volcanic eruption or c) Damon All-Bran pulling a pint behind the bar of "his" pub. I toyed briefly with the idea of telling them about catching sight of Björky's muff the week before, but decided they weren't worth the excitement.

Well, at least with the fucking foreigners I'd had a bit of an audience. Rejoining my friends, I realised they were way too drunk to be of any proper use. Bjarni was barely comprehensible after his mammoth after-work wine "tasting" session, the rest of the group were getting down to some mildly dirty dancing that I was either too drunk or not drunk enough for, and it says a lot when the most conversation you get all night is with the bar staff. I "impressed" Jean Alexander with my exceptional French grammar for a while, "je suis un croissant verte"—he's the barkeep, he gets paid to nod politely—and then decided enough was enough, I wasn't getting nearly enough attention from anybody and it was time to go home early, before 3am. I tried half-heartedly to tempt my boy to come with me (why, I don't know, we were both way too drunk for either one of us to be any good in bed) but he wasn't biting. The bar was full of honeys and he had his strut on, albeit a little staggered.

It wasn't until I got out into the open air—bored of 101, bored of Reykjavík, bored of the weekend that hadn't even begun yet—that my mother's voice entered my head (in that spooky way like they do in the movies, although she isn't dead) scolding me for complaining of boredom, "You're only bored because you're boring. Go and draw a picture."

Fuck! Is that it? Am I actually just bored of myself?