Definition
1 a : a social gathering with dancing
b : a usually large or lavish party
At a glance, shindig appears to combine shin and dig, and thus might seem to suggest a painful kick to the leg—especially when you know that one of the first senses of shindig in English refers to a gathering at which people dance. It is more likely, however, that shindig is an alteration of shindy, which is itself the alteration of another word, shinny, used of a variation of hockey that is played with a curved stick and a ball or block of wood. It's not entirely clear how the game of shinny gave shindy its first meaning (the "social gathering with dancing" meaning that is also the original meaning of shindig) but shinny remains the most likely origin.
The room, despite being one of the larger rooms in the building (not that that was saying much, it being a badly converted Frankenstein conversion of several townhouses, thus forming a rabbit warren of misshapen, ill-defined rooms that lead on and on and on, seemingly leading you around in ever decreasing circles until you have suspected you might, possibly, walk yourself into oblivion and the only thing stopping you was the sudden seemingly miraculous appearance of the bar - by which you were willing to splurge an inordinate amount of cash on the hopefully memory damaging properties of alcohol in order to forget said terrifying experience. Upon reflection, perhaps more thought had gone into the layout than I previously considered.) was hot. Muggy hot. So hot I could feel beads of sweat appear on my skin, begin the uncomfortable slide down my body before being evaporated half way down, leaving nothing behind but a tacky residue.
It was so hot even the walls themselves were sweating and since prior to this night I had no idea that walls could even do this, this new knowledge was freaking me out a bit.
"They're going to set off fireworks later!" Some drunk stranger hollered over my head at his equally drunk friend.
"Awesome!"
How the thought of setting off explosive rockets inside a relatively small, cramped and people filled building engendered any kind of response other than 'Oh dear God no', I could not, in all honestly, comprehend.
I clung to the bar (literally, I had a white knuckled grip of the ornamental brass replica metal pole encircling the bar. I was just hoping the screws hadn't rusted through and I wouldn't suddenly find myself falling backwards, about to be impaled by said rusty pole) as the crush and sway of the surrounding crowd buffeted me back and forth. It had taken a judicious amount of elbowing to even make it this far through the crowd and I'd be damned if any one of these drunken revellers made me surrender my hard earned spot.
A well endowed lady tried to shoulder her way in front of my petite form, but a hard stare made her quickly give up on that idea and she slunk down to the other end of the bar.
I grappled my phone out of my bag and sent a rather venomous text that, in short, demanded to know the whereabouts of my supposed companion for the evening.
"Soz. Stuck in traffic."
She had apparently been stuck in traffic for the better part of two hours. Two long, sticky hours. Interesting when she lived a mere twenty minutes away and had a terrible and well deserved reputation for being late.
There was a disturbance in crowd next to me and suddenly a wave of cheap bear soaked my outfit.
Enough was enough.
I texted her to let her know not to bother. I was exiting this terrible place and the only reason I wasn't burning it down as I left was purely because the walls were too damp to catch light.
The cold night was a blessed relief - even if the air was too cold that it seared my lungs with every inhale.
The street was quiet and deserted. Normally unusually so, but this was the party night of the year and everyone was inside, ensuring they got the absolute maximum fun from the evening, even if they had to wring it out drop by drop. Since taxi fare would be extortionate by this point in the night (which was fair as it's hard enough dealing with your drunken friends when you a, you actually like them and b, are also a bit drunk. Dealing with very drunken strangers and having to ferry them around whilst praying they a, don't throw up in your car which is also your means of earning a living and b, actually have the cash to pay you or c, both. Nope, in my opinion, taxi drivers at this time of night can charge as much as they like.
But I decided to walk home. It wasn't a long walk and after two long hours of being crushed and having my ear drums assaulted, the spacious peace of the empty pavement was just too luxurious too resist.
Leaving a trail of my white breath behind me, I set off along the grey road, frost beginning to etch patterns on the black asphalt of the road. Hopefully gritters would be along in the morning, otherwise the usual birdsong would be interrupted with the squeal of brakes and lurid curses. Or breaking metal and then silence, if the driver was unlucky.
I pulled out my phone and sent an online message to the Local Council. It might help. It might not. Still, at least I tried.
The graveyard was dark and that special kind of quiet that only the property of the dead seem to possess. Most of my friends thought I was crazy for walking through the graveyard after dark. I said that was the point - if they thought it was a crazy idea, hopefully muggers and rapists would too. Despite it having a rather bad reputation for vengeful ghosts, I'd never had any issue with them. Perhaps because it was not me they were seeking vengeance from.
The gravestones looked beautiful in the moonlight. I perched on the steps of a nearby mausoleum to admire them. The door behind me, the door to the crypt within the mausoleum, creaked open. There was a pause and I very carefully did not look around or make any threatening gestures. I just sat still, the moonlight pouring down on me.
There was a slight 'hmm' noise, then the door gently shut again.
At least the dead understood the meaning of personal space.
A few misty shapes floated about the other end of the graveyard, by the lych gate, about as substantial as the smoke from a cigarette or the unspoken prayer sent up to the heavens with incense.
Speaking of smoke...
I fumbled around in my jacket pocket and pulled out my pewter cigarette case. Pretentious? Slightly - but better than trying to smoke crumpled and bent cigarettes with the tobacco spilling out the tears like guts from a zombie extra in a horror movie.
I shook my cheap, snot green, plastic lighter doubtfully. I had got it months ago, from a tiny random newsagents in the middle of nowhere as I was driving past. IT had lasted an impressively long time - perhaps because I smoked rarely these days - so lately every time I used it I suspected it would be the last time.
A cheerful yellow flame flickered into life. One more day then.
I inhaled lightly, gathering and holding the smoke into my mouth before releasing it into the night sky. The tip glowed bright in the gloom. My friends often wondered why I smoked - especially when I was such a health freak in all other areas. We all used to smoke back in uni, and even then I smoked the least. However, one by one, especially after the ban on indoor smoking came into play, they gave up. Only I remained.
I didn't know how to explain why I smoked. Admittedly, despite it being poison, I had always admired the appearance of smoking, how you took it from the pack, how you lit it, how you held it - but how shallow was that? Had that been my only reason, I would have quit with the rest of them.
I smoked when I was homesick. When I was missing a place, a person or even a point in time. When I looked in the mirror and could not recognise the person looking back at me, that was when I craved them most. The metal and ashes taste in my mouth was, for me, pure nostalgia.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I flicked the ash from my cigarette and transferred it to my other hand, pulling out my phone with the other. My friend, texting me, apologising. I put it back in my pocket without replying. My temper had cooled now I was out of that club, but she could stew a little while longer for what she put me through.
I took another draw on my cigarette and blew the smoke straight up, watching it snare itself on the bare branches of the trees scattered about the graveyard. A ghost was already entangled there, pierced and impaled by several branches. It didn't seem to be bothering it so I let it be.
The world was quiet and still, the birds sleeping, the revellers far and away and revelling in their designated halls. Not even a desperate taxi driver, car loaded with dangerously intoxicated passengers, drove past on the road outside. It was as dark and quiet and cool as I suspected the inside of the mausoleum behind me was.
It was nice.
I sat there and watched the ghosts, waiting for the sun to rise on a new day.
A few misty shapes floated about the other end of the graveyard, by the lych gate, about as substantial as the smoke from a cigarette or the unspoken prayer sent up to the heavens with incense.
Speaking of smoke...
I fumbled around in my jacket pocket and pulled out my pewter cigarette case. Pretentious? Slightly - but better than trying to smoke crumpled and bent cigarettes with the tobacco spilling out the tears like guts from a zombie extra in a horror movie.
I shook my cheap, snot green, plastic lighter doubtfully. I had got it months ago, from a tiny random newsagents in the middle of nowhere as I was driving past. IT had lasted an impressively long time - perhaps because I smoked rarely these days - so lately every time I used it I suspected it would be the last time.
A cheerful yellow flame flickered into life. One more day then.
I inhaled lightly, gathering and holding the smoke into my mouth before releasing it into the night sky. The tip glowed bright in the gloom. My friends often wondered why I smoked - especially when I was such a health freak in all other areas. We all used to smoke back in uni, and even then I smoked the least. However, one by one, especially after the ban on indoor smoking came into play, they gave up. Only I remained.
I didn't know how to explain why I smoked. Admittedly, despite it being poison, I had always admired the appearance of smoking, how you took it from the pack, how you lit it, how you held it - but how shallow was that? Had that been my only reason, I would have quit with the rest of them.
I smoked when I was homesick. When I was missing a place, a person or even a point in time. When I looked in the mirror and could not recognise the person looking back at me, that was when I craved them most. The metal and ashes taste in my mouth was, for me, pure nostalgia.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I flicked the ash from my cigarette and transferred it to my other hand, pulling out my phone with the other. My friend, texting me, apologising. I put it back in my pocket without replying. My temper had cooled now I was out of that club, but she could stew a little while longer for what she put me through.
I took another draw on my cigarette and blew the smoke straight up, watching it snare itself on the bare branches of the trees scattered about the graveyard. A ghost was already entangled there, pierced and impaled by several branches. It didn't seem to be bothering it so I let it be.
The world was quiet and still, the birds sleeping, the revellers far and away and revelling in their designated halls. Not even a desperate taxi driver, car loaded with dangerously intoxicated passengers, drove past on the road outside. It was as dark and quiet and cool as I suspected the inside of the mausoleum behind me was.
It was nice.
I sat there and watched the ghosts, waiting for the sun to rise on a new day.
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