Living for Disco

As always happens after very very drunken parties, my virtual self has woken ridiculously early, under a pile of coats, next to a total stranger, with a banging headache, selective memory, and eyeliner all over my face.

There seems to be a dead cat buried in the yucca plant and an unconcious, half naked policeman in the garden. My washing machine is full of sick, there’s vodka jelly all over the place, and bits of kebab are hanging from the walls.

I think it was a roaring success. Thank you all for coming. Hope you enjoy the soggy party bags.

Ooops. Just tripped over the blow up doll….

Also, I just wanted to thank Claypot and Petite for directing people to the knees up!

8.30am: The orange glow of a streetlamp creeps in through the curtains. It becomes apparent that the annoying buzzing of the alarm clock is not going to go away. Our heroine rolls over, falls off the mattress and awakes to the din of a brass band marching inside her head.

She vaguely remembers staggering to bed at the ungodly, unsociable hour of 4.30am, after being bitch-slapped by a psycho-queen, and then engaging in conversation with a friend’s father. Without slurring. Very surprising, as our heroine had consumed a rather large amount of alcohol, some proportion of which was knocked back with salt and a slice of lemon earlier in the evening.

With some effort, Rachie (for it is she) gathers up her remaining brain cells, heaves herself off the mattress and staggers upstairs to dip her aching face in cold, cold water. Bravely, she enters the living room. In the gloom, it is apparent that there are two people ensconced under a duvet. Her high heels clump over the bare boards. “Bugger off. It’s too early for visitors”. The voice of the host rises through the duck down, and emerges, muffled, into the dawn. “Shut up, you bastard. I have to go to work”, retorts our heroine, desperately seeking her coat and scarf so that she can take her tequila-sodden liver out into the morning, and drag it, screaming, to the office.

Suddenly, another head rears from the sea of duvets (our heroine has had to sleep under an old sleeping bag). “Good morning Flatmate”, she cheerily chimes [mutters in the tones of the undead]. “Urgh”, replies Flatmate, and puts her head back under the duvet.

I must go now, and begin my intravenous coffee drip. Thank you, and goodbye.

A man with a ‘For Sale’ board came round this morning. He was hammering into the ground outside our gate as I staggered out of the house this morning, alcohol fumes pouring from every pore. The urge to puke into the rose bushes was becoming overwhelming. “Smile”, he said. “It can’t be that bad”.

I really hate people that say that. How do they know? Last time someone said that to me I was walking down the street a couple of weeks after my Dad died. ‘Grief-stricken’ would fairly accurately describe my state of mind. Possibly also ‘drug-addled’ from a combination of Prozac and diazepam*. In any case, you can bet that he won’t be saying it to anyone else any time soon.

Anyway, I managed not to vomit down his jumper, and made it to London Bridge in one piece. Bless Boots. Bless Alka-seltzer. Bless you all, my little darlings. So, one toasted scrambled egg and spinach muffin and pink grapefruit juice later I’m feeling slightly more human. At least the greenish tinge has gone from my cheeks, and the ability to speak has returned. The likelihood is that I won’t be mistaken for the living dead, as was a distinct possibility this morning. That is the very last time I go out with people from work for drinks. They’re evil, and wish me harm.

*Don’t you think it’s insane that they furnish depressed people with tranquillizers? Apparently Prozac can interfere with your sleep patterns, so I was told if I had trouble sleeping to neck one of those. I could barely get out of bed in the morning for weeks because I couldn’t bear actually existing. The tranquillizers en-masse were terribly tempting.

Today marks the end of World War I. It also happens to be the day on which Yasser Arafat died. Two momentous things ended. Maybe (and I know this is a contentious thing to say), maybe now there is hope for a peace between Palestine and Israel. I say this not because I think Arafat necessarily stood in the way of peace, but because now the Israelis are deprived of their main excuse not to go to the negotiating table with Palestine. It could be that the new leader may be able to make real inroads to Israeli policy, and as well as the withdrawal from the Gaza Strip, they will withdraw from the West Bank, and maybe even tear down that monstrous wall. Somebody should. Or perhaps it marks the beginning of descent into deeper conflict and a divided Palestinian state. It’s a scary time.

Today, here in London, is also a beautiful day. My cycle ride this morning was lovely. The sky is a gorgeous fragile blue, the sunshine is touching everything and making it more attractive than usual. Including the nice little piles of glass that litter the roadside, one of which was responsible for my puncture on Monday. They glint prettily in the sun, and make me wonder just how many car thefts occur in Bermondsey every day? It must be a hell of a lot to make all that mess, I can tell you.

I almost didn’t cycle in today; I have a hangover. I went out for a drink with a friend I haven’t seen for ages. It was meant to be just a quick drink, but you know what those are like. My last memory is of sitting in the pub, with a HUGE glass of red wine, ranting about George W Bush, while my mind was thinking “Gosh, I didn’t know I was so eloquent”. Words were falling from my tongue in an unadulterated stream. Usually I would be clicking my fingers, going “er, um, what’s that word, you know the one… mmm, gah”, and thereby losing all the impact of the terribly profound and important statement I was making. Last night I was spewing out erudition in whole sentences. I was so proud. Can’t remember any of it now though. Maybe I was possessed by the spirit of a political analyst.

Goodness me. I can’t seem to stop myself today. It must be all the CVs I’m having to wade through. My hind-brain is whizzing away trying to think of other things while I roll my eyes at yet another poorly constructed and irrelevant personal sales pitch. Why do people apply for jobs when they patently don’t have any of the relevant experience?

Anyway, I remembered something that happened recently that amused me. I found myself, yet again, in a drinking establishment with some friends. I don’t know how this happens so often. I must have been given some divine mission to bless as many pubs as possible with my presence. The lucky, lucky landlords.

After leaving we decided to celebrate my friend’s birthday by going to a pizza restaurant. That didn’t serve alcohol. What were we thinking? Being saviour of the moment, I hotfooted it across the road to Oddbins, which had been open not ten minutes previously when I wanted to buy cigarettes (I have given up… I have). Obviously, my visit traumatised them to the extent that they had to close up shop early, and the door was barred. So I went to Tesco Metro. It was empty, save for a few dull-eyed staff, listlessly sweeping the floor or just shuffling around like lost souls waiting for oblivion. Tumbleweed drifted through the aisles. I headed for the wine section. The white wine was all warm, even though it was in the fridge. Odd.

After five minutes in there I thought I’d better hurry out, or risk becoming a permanent fixture, doomed to spend eternity walking into shelves and drooling into my shoes. The knackered-looking woman guarding the till looked at me in despair. “ID?” she said. I laughed. I’m 30 years old for god’s sake, and haven’t looked 18 since I was 15. I’ve never been asked for ID in my life. She didn’t crack a smile. “Have you got a driving license or anything? I can’t sell this to you without ID.” I handed it over. She didn’t bat an eyelid.

I’ve been checking out my ‘laughter-lines’ in the mirror ever since. It may be my imagination, but I think they’re fading…