Liver Die

After a solid week in Scotland, my liver texted me this morning to say it's leaving.

Last night was wonderfully messy. I found a new bar called Habana and wandered in, ordering a vodka and diet coke.

"How much?"

The price was repeated.

"No. Really. How much?"

The price was repeated again.

"Are you sure?"

To which the reply was; "Yes. It is just a pound. You from London?"

And those are the last coherent words I can remember from last night. There were two other clubs, a bar, a fish bar, somehow I brought a packet of cigarettes. There was half-hearted oh-god-so-pissed dancing, followed by some maybe-if-i-smoke-some-more-and-stand-still-i'll-feel-better slouching in a corner, followed by the Return To Base instinct. Although, even auto-pilot stumbling home I managed to find time to eye up a stranger in the street.

Oh yeah, and the irritated memory that CC Blooms charged a whole £1.50 for a vodka and coke. The expensive rip-off merchants.

I've stopped getting hangovers. I've just got this weird cold that's getting worse. And a racking cough. Together with an urge to eat all the fresh vegetables in the world.

Plus, in all the time I've been here, I've only had one decent cup of coffee. In a chinese restaurant. This morning's was particularly vile. Clearly, if you can't mix a drink with vodka, they're not interested.