Good Greek Girls Don't Read Free Page A

any action down at the bars. Nothing kicks off early anyway and there is no way I will be sitting at home before midnight on a Saturday night. I do have an image to protect.
    I find the crew easily. They’re so predictable – sitting in the first bar I come to. I manage to piss off a few little teenyboppers when I bypass the queue and walk right in, leaving them standing on a street corner on a cold Melbourne night, worried that the predicted rain will start falling and all the women’s hair will frizz and curl. It’s just not the done thing for these kiddies to show up at a bar with an umbrella, despite the fact they live in Melbourne, the city where if you don’t like the weather all you’ve got to do is wait a minute. It will change. Four seasons in one day, and if you’re lucky you’ll be subjected to the worst extreme at the worst possible moment.
    My mates Johnny, Tom, Connie, Voula, Mario, Soula and a few others are all in the middle of shots when I find them and they take little to no time to include me in the festivities. This is our usual Saturday night ritual. We start of at quieter bar, down a few drinks, and us girls shatter a few guys who think they stand a chance with us and still haven’t gotten the hint when their wallet’s are empty. Move on to the other bars. We hit them all in the course of the night and by the time dawn breaks you can’t tell one bar from the other. They all have the same setup, similar decor, but I still love it. I love the beat of the music beneath my feet. The pulse of the city races right through me as I hit the dance floor. We always have something to celebrate and tonight numerous toasts will be made in my honour and my triumph over Sophia and Spiro.
    God I need to pee. The only drawback to bars in the city is the queues at the bathrooms. The queues to get into the clubs are easy to bypass but there is no cutting the line when it comes to the bathroom. Women can be vicious when it comes to bladder control. The wait for the bathroom is the true reason why we women don’t go the toilet alone. The wait is too boring. At least I have Voula to keep me company, although at the moment I seem to be holding her up more that than her holding me up. She started drinking a lot earlier than me and she is absolutely rooted now.
    â€˜Hey Vouls. You okay?’ Man, if she doesn’t stop swaying she’s going to make me hurl.
    â€˜Sweet, Des. Nothing wrong that this little baby won’t fix.’
    What the hell has she got in her hands? Not again.
    â€˜Want one, Des? Want one?’
    I have no idea what she is holding in her hand but I know it can’t be good. And I am in no condition to deal with another overdose, or with trying to get Voula down in time for her to go home, making sure her family is none the wiser.
    â€˜Pass, Voula. Vodka gives me all the buzz I need. What the hell is that and who the fuck did you score off in here?’
    â€˜Relax, Des. It’s just an eccie. It’ll keep you bouncing all night.’
    Who did she score off this time? The last time she scored off a guy she had just met it ended up costing her an ambulance trip to the hospital and a stomach pumping. I so cannot believe that her parents bought the whole ‘someone spiked my drink’ bullshit. How naïve can they be?
    â€˜Who did you get it from?’ I need to know if tonight’s festivities are going to involve me sobering her up and getting her to a hospital again.
    â€˜Relax. Johnny’s got a nice stash tonight. Go grab a couple, Des, and loosen up.’
    And off she goes. Jeez I hate nightclub toilets.
    By the time we hit the last bar it’s seven in the morning and none of us can ignore the rumblings of our stomachs. Food is needed, and after a heated debate we decide the safest option for breakfast is a cafe on Lygon Street as opposed to a post-alcoholic souvlaki at Stalactites. I personally love