Situation: Managed

Good news!

The crippling guilt and empathetic mortification that kept me from gracing my favourite off license with my presence for nigh-on six weeks is all over! It's made like a tree and fucked off! Vamoosed! Hopped a train for the west! What does that mean? I don't fucking know, I just write this stuff, it's up to my biographer to figure it all out!* You see, I encountered my favourite off-license employee, we'll call her Amy, out in a popular local nightspot over the Christmas holidays and, all buoyed up on the joy and festive guff that trickles from other people being around and hugging one indiscriminately, I insisted that she join me in a wee dram. Of tequila. The aforementioned fave off-license employee claimed excessive inebriation but I waved this off as feminine coquetry. Why I thought this is anyone's guess. We ordered shots, received shots; ladies and gents, we shot.

And then she vommed all over me. Exuberantly. One might say, explosively. Then she started to cry and scarpered swiftly. So, because I am a lady of class and discretion, I have avoided her ever since. Until tonight, when my newfound fondness for making smoothies at all hours sped me to her place of work to purchase tinned pineapple. I crossed my fingers, toes and legs (I'd had two cans of Fanta before setting out) and hoped against hope that she had been fired. For her sake, you understand. I was horrified for her. Nobody minds a bit of vomit on them, especially if one deserves and probably induced it but, my God! The humiliation that girl must have suffered, night after night, concerned for my take on the situation.

So. Short story long, I mustered my troops and plopped my pineapple and six pack of Fanta down on the counter. 'Ooh, Amy, you got your hair did!' I exclaimed. Yes, my lips uttered trite inanities but my eyes beseeched: I forgive you, little sparrow. Now, forgive yourself. It was enough. We are firm friends once more. Relieved? Dude, I nearly puked!

*Yeah, by the way, you need to get cracking on that, Mr Biographer. I have six shoeboxes of juvenelia sitting around here, just waiting for you to unearth my precocious intellect!