Drinking

(wrote this yesterday while inebriated)

Getting drunk’s got a nice sense of order. Order your pint up at the bar, smile knowing pleasantries at the girl pouring your pint, count out change from your open hand or if drunk, dive straight into the wallet for a note.

Maneuvre for your table. If carrying one or two pints, you have some leeway to look about you. If carrying three or four, it’s best to keep your eyes on the prize. Don’t think too hard about your grip, just don’t lose it.

Remember a couple of weeks ago, spilling out into a small black car. Made sure my left leg was nestling up against the right of a pretty girl and rested my head back on the headrest. Tuning into possibilities in the future and ignoring the hum in my head. Top it up from a couple of bottles from the fridge when you get there. Spin some idle lines over donuts and then off out into the cold, wondering where you missed your chance.

Text messages are a funny thing aren’t they? Chiming in from the ether, with a discordant rumble from your pocket. Reach in and withdraw the small black lump of plastic. Moment of hope, till you realise that it’s a message from your mum. “Are you around for dinner this Sunday?”, but not this time. Something promising about the day after next and enough encouragement to put a spring in your step, turn your ipod up to a favourite tune and you walk home, wondering still.

Or what about this weekend, where a love of lager saw me recounting anecdotes to a girl with a pretty face and big arms. Saw me convincing my pal to let us all back. That’s it, whack the stereo on and shuffle. Everyone got a song in their heart after a few beverages and the girl’s got a small smile on her face, like the song you’re singing badly is her favourite, but she don’t mind what you’re doing to it. Reach out a hand to caress a face and then slump down in your chair. Videos on the screen, too much pox and it’s time to sleep again.

Drinking with my sister tonight. Something of a change and a chance to crack a bottle of red and talk about the family situation. Thinking this isn’t the way they explained it to me. Mumbling about relationships and Hockney and the perils of modern living, but laughing about the way the dog acts. No way he can can be eleven already, and no way either of us can be worrying about medical trials and field research, when all the old arguments revolve around the programmes on tv and the tunes that make it better. Hasslehoff on YouTube and Bollywood videos and pantomime ceilings.

Lame, shaking off melancholy is a bit like shaking off a bad hangover. You don’t really know you’re better until the day after the day after, and by then you’re too busy getting up or down about something else. Still that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Just time before these fingers get too numb to head out into the garden, root around for the key out of the kitchen first. Spark another cigarette and consider how that makes you feel. Actually I feel a little ropey, and this thing is stuffing up my throat. Still room in the legs for another run tomorrow, and feeling near enough salvation and damnation to not give a damn for both. Spark another another cigarette and pace the length of the grass, whistling and thinking about the possibilities lying in sleep or the promise of open arms and weakness and rest.