Saturday, May 10, 2003

"I'd seen a vodka ad once, just a glass full of vodka standing in the middle of a snow-drift in a blue light, and the vodka looked clear and pure as water, so I thought having vodka plain must be all right. My dream was some day ordering a drink and finding out it tasted wonderful." – Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
On the theme of drinking, I exceeded the usual pissed-up pratfalls of a Friday night last night. It's rather disturbing how often my entries here on the Avenue read like this, but here goes...

So, the CEO is away at the moment and my line manager is in charge. None of us, including the aforementioned line manager has any motivation after the launch to actually do any work so we spent the day in IM giggling and being silly until it was an acceptable time to go to the pub. Once there, we embarked on an office outing to TotallyFuckedLand until I realised I was drastically late for dinner with my parents and had to run away as best as my alcohol-addled legs would allow. (That’s not very fast by the way. In fact, I got further just standing still and letting the swaying pavement take me into the distance...)

Burst into the house to find everyone at the table finishing dinner. I make no apologies - mainly because I can't as my face seemed to have collapsed in on itself by then, and start to eat, thinking that some food and plenty of cool, clear water will sort me out. However, I had no idea that our cousin who works for Harrods had been wine-tasting for that illustrious emporium of over-priced...stuff that afternoon and had very kindly furnished our meal with the left over bottles. So the plan to sober up was...unfeasible, after all. And it all ended with me sitting in a puddle of red wine, apologising profusely as the booze seeped into my clothes, the table and the carpet... then I had to go home (couldn’t exactly stay after that little catastrophe…) wearing a pair of my brother's trousers and suffered the loss of one, then the other contact lens whilst stumbling through London Underground, struggling in vain to 1) see where I was going and 2) keep the trousers from falling down by yanking them up with both hands in a comedic slapstick fashion every two steps. Ugh. This must not, *cannot* turn into a tradition, a ritual, a habit. My brother will run out of trousers one day.

There have been few references to the world outside the Avenue, I know; but things have been... self-absorbing lately and will probably continue to be so until the wedding is over. So, please feel free to keep peering through this (Microsoft?) window into my world - or pull the curtains closed behind you and come back later, there’s a good chap.

By the way, is it tragically sad or hopelessly hip to avoid a party because you’ve been partying too hard and need a night in? I can’t decide if it’s an embarrassing sign of not being able to keep up and keep going or a sign of admirable and sensible self-preservation. Well? Hmmm? Huh?

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