Supposedly my drunken impersonation of a sober cat was spectacular. Supposedly my drunken question asking all my friends why they had gotten so fat was also spectacular, but for entirely different reasons. Supposedly it’s considered impolite to ask someone you’ve just met at a dinner party what its like being reduced to only one testicle after testicular cancer and completely inappropriate to then inquire as to whether his lone solider has made up for the dip in volume production. And supposedly my continued ability to ‘examine’ women’s breasts without them slapping me in the face is an extremely coveted and completely non-transferable skill. At times my behaviour even has me shaking my head in disbelief.
Of my 40 hrs in Canberra I spent over half of them intoxicated and the other half recovering and overeating. Also, my recollection is that she spilt the champagne over me and therefore no apology was needed. Actually, if I’m being entirely honest, my recollection only extends to remembering that at one time on Friday evening my left side was dry and then an uncertain time later my left side was wet.
Saturday morning started very well and surprisingly hangover free. At the time I was convinced that the greasy chips and gravy shared on the way home from clubbing had helped out with that. Unfortunately within an hour of waking and after studiously cleaning the chicken poo covered pavers outside in preparation for an impending BBQ my absent hangover came crashing in. I was given alcohol and painkillers to deal with the situation. The prescribed cure worked wonders. The friend who I stayed with has turned an entire room in his house into a brewery in an attempt to help curb his alcoholism. I should elaborate, to curb the expense related to his alcoholism. Fifty cents a beer is a bargain. I must admit that his amazing ginger beer made me weak at the knees and I can’t wait for my next trip down when I get to try his apple cider.
Friends from the Friday night drink fest failed to turn up to the Saturday lunch BBQ binge. I rang to find out where they were and was exhaustedly informed by one friend that he was busy cleaning up the contents of his stomach from his lounge room carpet. My few remaining sober brain cells made the logical conclusion that this meant he wouldn’t be making lunch. It was an excessive weekend.
Feeling a little sad on the trip back to Sydney I realised how much I’ve missed some of my good mates and our warm and fuzzy and comfortingly familiar relationships. I have no intention of moving back to Canberra, but I’m already planning my next trip down. I’ll just need a few weeks to recover.