Monday, January 30, 2012
on white wine
"Mommy" being Aunty Peas..
I haven't really been drunk drunk - drunk like I was 25 - since New Year's eve. And even then, I wasn't seeing double and I do vaguely remember how we got home.
Friday changed that. There comes a point, where your workload and propensity for tolerance start to form their own Pythagoras.
I'd draw the graph, but I can't be fucked.
It's a triangle, based on axes x and y, and they invariably meet.
Getting to grips with how sick my aunt is at the moment, and how quickly she's suddenly turned, coupled with the thoughts around what happens next, and visits to the hospital every other day, is all very devastating to me and the rest of the family.
If there's one window of opportunity to block out these thoughts - even for a few hours - as well as thoughts around how I'll get all my work done before going to South Africa - I'll take it.
So I went out with the team on Friday. Devoured a bottle of white white with She Who Loves Tweed, and then continued to consume a string of gin and tonics at a place called "The Sapphire Lounge," which had a bar counter stickier than the tip of Russell Brand's dick.
It was superb. To be so thoroughly shitfaced, that I don't remember which train (or was it even a train?) took me home, or how I got from the station to the front door.
I don't really get drunk these days. Caveat, I don't really get drunk-drunk these days. 'These days' being the last 6 months or so. Unless the situation really calls for it, most of the time I aim for the sweet spot.
The sweet spot is that point between three glasses of champagne and four. You're teetering, but you know the next glass will make you want a cigarette, and you know that the fourth glass is the fine line between a hangover and just Monday morning.
It's part of being 31. Being strategic about who you get drunk with, and how you get drunk.
Anyway, so on Friday I got drunk. It was absolutely fucking glorious. I couldn't feel my fingers I absolutely loved fucking everyone.
I made a new best gay friend. (This happens from time to time. I'm very 'gay fickle.')
The Brit luckily - and strategically - managed to merge his evening nicely so that we collided on hangover.
And spent the whole of Saturday - from start to fucking finish - lying in bed, necking paracetamol (and each other). The entire day was dedicated to Chez Duvet. Rendered useless, thanks to white wine hangover. (I'm a fuckstick for choosing such a stupid alcohol.)
Sunday was dedicated to my aunt. This is all very hard.