July 13, 2007

Recubation, noun
Lying down

She was standing at her own bedroom door, looking in, with a Dick Whittington pole over her left shoulder, a bundle of clothes tied up at the rear end in a red and white knotted cloth.

I know this, even though my eyes are closed.

Then I realise I've just woken up.

So I open my eyes.

And sure enough, she is standing at her own bedroom door, peering in, somewhat harshly whispering my name.

Then she's gone, and, a little confused, I put my head back on the pillow again, ready to slink back into that extraordinarily pissed sleep I'd just been enjoying.

And that's when I began to wonder, quite reasonably, who on earth was gently snoring next to me.

***

But first, the wine fair.

Picture the scene: A marquee in the grounds of a posh tennis club in reasonably posh West Didsbury, south Manchester. It being Manchester, on our way there we are steadily dusted by a light drizzle of the kind that soaks you- oh, you know what I mean.

The large white marquee is already full of people when we arrive, early, at 6.45pm. Row's friends are there in abundance, and they've already "sampled" a few fine wines.

People are talking about bouquets, depths, peats, vines, tannin, grapefruit, vanillas; but I'm not, because I have not a clue what any of it means.

My palette works only one way, you see: Free booze, open wide, glug, lovely, yes please, I'll try that next one.

We were pissed by 8pm.

And that was before we moved to the room with the whiskey.

***

We light our cigarettes in the company of fellow lepers sat outside the Four In The Hand pub. Needless to say, it begins to rain immediately. So our pints of Guinness follow us inside to Row's friends.

We drink some more. And then some more. And then some more again.

And then we're going for a (bloody fantastic) curry. With more beer.

And then we're going home, thickly drunk and full, to sleep The Blessed Sleep Of The Just.

***

So, who is in Row's bed, gently snoring, next to me?

It doesn't sound like Row, for starters.

And it can't be, because she's just finished doing that harsh whisper thing and gone out, somewhere, for some reason.

Then my brain starts to wake up, like a flower unfurling its petals in the sun, and yet not like a decent, robust, enchanting flower, but more like something shit and covered in grime and normally found on sale, in a sale, at petrol stations.

***

Where, for the love of sweet baby Jesus, am I this time?

And why is there a bloke next to me in bed?

And where is this bed? And what is this room? And how come I'm not nestled up with Row like I most certainly was when I went to sleep?

***

Like the contents of a large tureen of refrigerated raw eggs have just been tipped over my head, realisation slips in, cloaking me in icy dread.

No, I have no idea why I ended up in the bed of Row's flatmate, Pete, last night.

But I'm extraordinarily glad I was wearing something.