'It's day.'
These were the first, very confused words to come out of my mouth this morning.
'I know, sweetie.'
There was a Matthew lying across me, grinning, and that strange bright blankness that's been covering London for the past three days seeping in through the window. It wasn't our window. It was Matthew's bassist's girlfriend's window. And I was in her bed, hair like Medusa (mythical not editorial) and a mulled wine mouth.
I perhaps ought to mention now that she was not in the bed with me and that I've not begun to embrace a life of sending Matthew to sleep off his drunkenness while I shag other people's girlfriends. This girlfriend is currently in Germany and the bed was going free. I perhaps ought to mention now that last night I temporarily forgot that the age old anti-hangover ritual I was dutifully applying to Matthew -- Drink water! Eat! Ibuprofen! Go to bed! Good boy! -- would probably have benefited me as well. Instead, I cobbled together a very late supper of tortellini and asparagus for Matthew and sent him to bed. So that I could remain downstairs shrieking in earnest about class struggles and Nietzsche and white tea. No one in can be in Paddy's presence and not be reduced to shrieking. He is an endless stream of information and anecdotes and to make yourself heard requires torn vocal chords. We sloshed our way through two bottles of white wine and when those were emptied carried out a panicked search party for more booze in the kitchen. I perhaps ought to mention now that downing a vat of steaming mulled wine at four in the morning is not conducive to a living and productive following day.
Or waking up without a purple tongue. At about half five I flumped into bed next to Matthew, covered in the stench of up-to-late. I proceeded (apparently, and the only witness to this is Matthew, but I don't know if I can trust him) to breathe all over him and snore like an angry thunder god. Nice.
The cause of being undignified boozehound can be directly traced back to the best fucking gig I've ever seen Matthew (and his band) perform. I know I just end up sounding like the dutifully gushing girlfriend, but seriously. Something clicked on stage and it was electrifying. People danced and giddied; I managed not to groupie myself; the boys came off stage with grins so wide it pushed back their ears. It was marvellous.
In the aftermath that is today, I've done a whole whack of nothing much. Luke the illegal cat and I snoozed for a few hours this afternoon. I indulged in a chai latte and a cranberry and raspberry Innocent juice and read a bit of Frederick Forsyth's Day of the Jackal. I thought about the toxicology of the platypus. I danced a bit to the Exit to Wave rocking the juke box in my mind. I did not think of work. At. All. In fact, I think today, though tired and mercifully only mildly hungover, I have felt more relaxed than I have been in ages. I feel like I will awake tomorrow and DO THINGS. Like finish Matthew's socks in time to be stuffed inside a Christmas stocking. And maybe -- just maybe -- find time to upload some overdue pictures.
Comments