Sunday, March 05, 2006


Evidently enough time had passed since I started drinking again for me to forget why I gave it up for eight months. Since then I had not drunk more than a glass or two of red wine at a time. With the benefit of hindsight, it seems only too clear that I was due for a little reminder.

I love Sundays and it's a beautiful Sunday morning. Blue skies, I am by the sea and the best thing to do would be to take a long stroll along Brighton seafront which I was really looking forward to doing yesterday. That was before I started staggering around with cabernet stained lips and tongue, making squiffily judged home time choices.

As I sneak back in to Ele's house I am not really guilty of anything gossip worthy - to everyone's dismay, but I feel like a slapper simply because everyone else is in cosy PJ's whilst I am in my smoky clothes and high shoes from the night before.

I am unable to perform simple tasks that require hand to eye coordination such as spreading marmalade on a croissant. I cannot understand how my electric toothbrush works, or how to switch on the shower. Or why I still look like a goth after washing my face three times.

My sparkling breakfast conversation consists of monosyllabic answers and the occasional mumbled phrase. I am great company slumped in my chair, intermittently snoozing.

My choices are: drive back to London without throwing up or stay here and try not to throw up. I get in my car. It feels really weird, like driving for the first time. Or I am possibly still drunk. I am leaving Brighton without even a quick hello to the sea. I try having the window open, I try having it closed. I feel pukey.

I blast out local radio which interrupts 'Rock the Casbah' for a traffic update on the closure of the only road back to London which I am on.

Three hours later...
Home. Bed. The OC. Cup of tea.
Such a waste of a beautiful day.

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