October 2, 2006

Woe.

Woe is me.

One of the problems of having a friend who's looking after the kids while his wife's away *cough* is that the friend in question normally then needs looking after, too.

So, this friend of mine, whoever that is, and I, started out last Wednesday evening having a couple of bottles of wine.

On Thursday, we may have had three or four another one or two.

By Friday, wine was for girls - well, after the first bottle, anyway - and we instead set up the litre of Smirnoff on his kitchen worktop and screamed in unison: "Attaaaack!"

On Saturday morning, I woke to find myself shuddering on my mate's couch, his large and stupid dog eyeing me with a docile canine curiousity, a curiousity only matched by one of the kids also eyeing me with a stare that suggested I was not looking my best.

Saturday afternoon, there was a couple of pints of black soup while the paper was read; then back to my friend's again whereupon, as if by the kind of magic that we know and cherish from Brother's Grimm tales, the once-empty-and-licked-dry vodka bottle was now miraculously full to the brim again.

Come Sunday morning, I have extreme pineapple shakes worthy of dipsomaniac Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas.

The friend can't face anymore. But I can't face not having anymore.

To a pub, then, armed with a copy of The Observer and the News of the World - eclectic, moi - and gingerly dip into my pockets for the Weekend Slummy Of Shame in order to pay for my black soup.

My left hand, it thus appeared, had decided to take on a life of its own. Again, think Nic Cage in LLV trying to sign his signature at the bank...

But four pints of black soup helped. It made my eyeballs stop trembling inside their sockets, and got my flapping hands down enough so I could read the papers without everyone staring.

And then, back to another friend's, whereupon I am then virtually force-fed some delicious homemade spicy egg fried rice, followed an hour or two later by a plate of salt and vinegar and white pepper-smothered egg, sausage and ruddy fantastic homemade chips, which cheese and crackers (with baby plum tomatoes on top) for afters.

Lying there afterwards, stuffed, nursing a glass of Coca-Cola and realising I was feeling better for the first time in days, I looked up as my name was called out from the kitchen beyond.

"Yes?" I say.

"Fancy a glass of wine?"

I got in at 8.10am this morning...