So I'm standing there on the fringes, enjoying my exhaustion-fueled sense of disoriented contentment, when I see a pair of "normal" clubgoers arrive. They're paradigmatic clubbers, verging on stereotypical: expensive dresses, strappy shoes, made up to the hilt. Apparently no one told them the back room was reserved for a larval lawyer shinding.
I have never seen anything quite so beautiful, in its way, as the expression on their faces. It looks like a club. The music is right, the noise and the lights are right. But the people are all wrong. It's as though they've stepped across into Bizarro world. After about thirty seconds, they turn and flee as fast as their strappy little shoes will carry them.