I have been run over, then re-reversed over, by a tequila truck.
Last night, I met a guy friend of mine at the Melrose Arch Hotel, made famous by Oprah, Richard Branson and Craig David, who stay there because it’s the shit.
The bar charges five-kajillion smackeroonis for a flimsy frothy, but then the bar is an outdoor extravaganza, surrounded by a maze of hedges, tables situated in a shallow Jacuzzi and beds with scatter pillows on which you may rest your weary body, or in my case, my inebriated torso. Face-down.
We drank so much tequila, I could swear that:
1) I am a Mexican in a South African body
2) My name is Juanita
3) I smoked 83 cigarettes last night and I have singed my tonsils
4) I’ve aged 400 years
5) There is nothing I can possibly even consider taking remotely seriously today, and the boss has already worked this out
6) Steve phoned me from Knysna (he’s there for work) and I’m pretty sure we had a conversation but I cannot for the life of me fathom what we spoke about. Or did we actually did speak at all? Too scared to ask
My office is eerily quiet. This is incredibly disconcerting right now.
And to make it worse, I’ve just had to get into my hot car and drive home to let the gas man in, only to tell me that my gas will be cut off unless I get a new oven. Today.
I opened my mouth to speak…but instantaneously intoxicated him with tequila vapours.
So I phone my crazy landlady and tell her that I need a new oven, and pronto.
Now back at the office, Chris the guy from down the hall, who never speaks, thinks I want him because I was shamelessly flirting with him in my tequila-drenched state, of which I have realised that I am still drunk.
He even showed me his little white legs. The girls in the office told me not to seduce this man because he's so shy. Oh contraire, say I. I think t he needs a bloody good seducement. But I refuse to look at him now, because I cannot see straight.
This day is deteriorating very quickly.