Moments of insanity
It's taken me until now to start feeling a bit more normal after my rather hellish hangover. On a scale of 1 - 10, I would say it was about a 6.5. I just felt generally zombified all day. Have done absolutely nowt except shuffle off to the shops to buy the paper and some milk. I also saw a pair of shoes in the street. Crazy.
My dad says he doesn't do hangovers anymore because he can't hack them. I'm sure they get worse as you get older. I was stupidly at two parties last night; at Jo's I was dressed as a City of Liverpool purple wheelie bin. This is because it was a 90s party and because I think fancy dress parties are rubbish. At Helen's I admired the way that laminate flooring allows one to slide across to the drinks with ease and then realised that I was the most pissed up person there and that I should probably shut up. And perhaps leave. So I stupidly went back to party number 1 and danced to Catatonia, Oasis and Space. It cost me a fecking fortune in taxi fares but you forget that when you're as drunk as I was. You just think: Party! Dance! I'm now very annoyed with myself as I am skinted.
But the night was a lot of fun. Kate was there, as well as Matt and Sam from days back at halls and I suddenly felt all happy and sad and nostalgic at once. We're all old now and some of us are proper. With jobs and steady partners and stuff. I am none of these things. But I'm enjoying my last year of being a student while it lasts. Which frankly, isn't very long.
I'm still telling the story about the white, vaguely elderly, well spoken lady at the Bridgnorth poetry evening on Tuesday, who after regaling us with some fairly normal bog-standard poetry and carols for Christmas decided to "perform" Benjamin Zephaniah's Talking Turkeys. "I've been practising the accent" (she said in a cut glass RP) "and I think I've almost got it right". I was grateful that it was funny anyway, because it half-hid my embarrassed and incredulous muffled howls. What was she thinking? I don't think that there are any black people in Bridgnorth, Shropshire - there's also a pub named "The Black Boy Inn" featuring a life-sized model of a black kid - and in a way, it's just as well.
My dad says he doesn't do hangovers anymore because he can't hack them. I'm sure they get worse as you get older. I was stupidly at two parties last night; at Jo's I was dressed as a City of Liverpool purple wheelie bin. This is because it was a 90s party and because I think fancy dress parties are rubbish. At Helen's I admired the way that laminate flooring allows one to slide across to the drinks with ease and then realised that I was the most pissed up person there and that I should probably shut up. And perhaps leave. So I stupidly went back to party number 1 and danced to Catatonia, Oasis and Space. It cost me a fecking fortune in taxi fares but you forget that when you're as drunk as I was. You just think: Party! Dance! I'm now very annoyed with myself as I am skinted.
But the night was a lot of fun. Kate was there, as well as Matt and Sam from days back at halls and I suddenly felt all happy and sad and nostalgic at once. We're all old now and some of us are proper. With jobs and steady partners and stuff. I am none of these things. But I'm enjoying my last year of being a student while it lasts. Which frankly, isn't very long.
I'm still telling the story about the white, vaguely elderly, well spoken lady at the Bridgnorth poetry evening on Tuesday, who after regaling us with some fairly normal bog-standard poetry and carols for Christmas decided to "perform" Benjamin Zephaniah's Talking Turkeys. "I've been practising the accent" (she said in a cut glass RP) "and I think I've almost got it right". I was grateful that it was funny anyway, because it half-hid my embarrassed and incredulous muffled howls. What was she thinking? I don't think that there are any black people in Bridgnorth, Shropshire - there's also a pub named "The Black Boy Inn" featuring a life-sized model of a black kid - and in a way, it's just as well.