noun: a window with two panes of glass and a space between them; reduces heat and noise transmission through the window.
On Saturday, my cousin arrived from Australia. She's doing a placement for her university degree in drug-dealing (i.e. pharmacy). I picked her up from the airport, took her to her student lodgings, showed her some sites, and accompanied her for a drink afterwards in Soho. And as Soho is the sex capital of the West End, I of course felt it my duty to familiarise her with the reputable sex shops in the area - a must see for any first-timer to London. No purchases this time.
The quiet drink afterwards was in a funky, new bar with blaring music. My phone rang. I quickly ran outside to answer it in the auditory solace of the street, forgetting that I had walked through two glass doors to gain entry to this bar. Hurriedly trying to get outside, I was focusing on my destination - the outer door, where security staff were perched aggressively. Unfortunately for my face, the glass of the inner door was impeccably clear - stained not even by a fingerprint.
Of course I speak in past-tense, as now there is an imprint of my forehead and a little blood from the bridge of my nose corrupting its purity. I had run, hastily, into the glass door - reverberating a chime through the bar to momentarily drown the amplified base of the thumping speakers. It was only after I saw my phone drop to the ground and I felt my head swelling like a meat pie in an oven that I realise I had not made it outside – blocked by an invisible force-field.
It was a hard impact, so whether I was knocked to the ground or not I can't remember. My first instinct after picking up my phone was to begin smiling and laughing heartily in an attempt to diffuse the comedy of the incident from the jesting security men, the people lined up outside, the staff and patrons of the bar, and the indigent bums who had soiled themselves on the street - who were all very entertained by my elegant fall from grace.
One security man was kind enough to come forth and show me how the door works and gave me his blessing - which is very good of him as I can still feel the left side of my face throbbing in an attempt to pump blood past the clot that has undoubtedly lodged in my brain. It wasn't the first such incident of the night. The poor girl that Christened the door before me ended up in the emergency room with a possibly broken nose. That makes me feel better about myself.
On Saturday, my cousin arrived from Australia. She's doing a placement for her university degree in drug-dealing (i.e. pharmacy). I picked her up from the airport, took her to her student lodgings, showed her some sites, and accompanied her for a drink afterwards in Soho. And as Soho is the sex capital of the West End, I of course felt it my duty to familiarise her with the reputable sex shops in the area - a must see for any first-timer to London. No purchases this time.
The quiet drink afterwards was in a funky, new bar with blaring music. My phone rang. I quickly ran outside to answer it in the auditory solace of the street, forgetting that I had walked through two glass doors to gain entry to this bar. Hurriedly trying to get outside, I was focusing on my destination - the outer door, where security staff were perched aggressively. Unfortunately for my face, the glass of the inner door was impeccably clear - stained not even by a fingerprint.
Of course I speak in past-tense, as now there is an imprint of my forehead and a little blood from the bridge of my nose corrupting its purity. I had run, hastily, into the glass door - reverberating a chime through the bar to momentarily drown the amplified base of the thumping speakers. It was only after I saw my phone drop to the ground and I felt my head swelling like a meat pie in an oven that I realise I had not made it outside – blocked by an invisible force-field.
It was a hard impact, so whether I was knocked to the ground or not I can't remember. My first instinct after picking up my phone was to begin smiling and laughing heartily in an attempt to diffuse the comedy of the incident from the jesting security men, the people lined up outside, the staff and patrons of the bar, and the indigent bums who had soiled themselves on the street - who were all very entertained by my elegant fall from grace.
One security man was kind enough to come forth and show me how the door works and gave me his blessing - which is very good of him as I can still feel the left side of my face throbbing in an attempt to pump blood past the clot that has undoubtedly lodged in my brain. It wasn't the first such incident of the night. The poor girl that Christened the door before me ended up in the emergency room with a possibly broken nose. That makes me feel better about myself.
