Having been away at home all weekend, and in Carlow on Sunday night for the opening of Rag Week with Annie and Marie, I saw the boys for the first time since Thursday at half past ten last night, as I rolled in from working late, all bedraggled and trailing bags after me. Bedraggled and scruffy because of Sunday night's alcohol overindulgence and having been rained and snowed upon waiting for a bus. Obviously. Misery isn't really misery without some unexpected precipitation and a hangover.
'You were locked on Thursday,' Burt said accusingly.
'Ah' I said with little interest.
'You were more drunk than I've ever seen you, ever.'
'You picked Aoife up and then dropped her on her arse. In the middle of the dancefloor.'
'And you slapped me in the face.' Suplied David.
'And you laid into me for calling you a drunk.'
I needn't tell you any more of the horror of that night, as I hardly think you need any more proof that I am a vile, debauched, spitting, biting mess of a creature. Only with a drink in me, naturally. I am lovely sober.
Nothing speeds along a good bout of misery like some beautiful melancholic music, so last night I opted for Declan O'Rourke's lovely Since Kyabram, which Annie lent me over the weekend. Track three, Galileo, is so whimsically lovely it hurts. Actual physical pain. Maybe thats only the echoes of my seemingly constant hangover, though.