Night One of not drinking. I'm back in the flat after seeing The Darjeeling Limited (In Wes Anderson's world, when you stop worrying about money, you start worrying about your relationship with your father. Blah blah some Indian stuff blah blah).
So, I'm back in the flat. This is normally the point where I'd have a little drink and a smoke before bed. What do sober people do?
I start folding washing. The phone rings. It's The Squaddie. "Where the fuck have you been?" he asks.
"Scotland and ill." I say.
"Fuck off," he says. "I'm coming round."
"But-". He's hung up.
It is at this point I remember that someone was laughing annoyingly loudly throughout the film. This is wrong for two reasons - Firstly, it's a Wes Anderson film. Secondly, it was me. Clearly, the cocktail of codeine and antibiotics has gone to my head. And the Squaddie is coming round, doesn't sound happy and, and... I've just taken a sleeping tablet.
Ten minutes later the Squaddie is in the flat and I'm high as a kite.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks.
I give him a slow smile. "Making you coffee, silly."
"You've been staring at that cupboard for a minute. I've been watching."
"Is it not a kettle? Oh."
We sit in the living room. He wants to have a row about me not calling him, but I keep laughing at his voice.
"That's a very naughty word," I tell him, seriously, "But it doesn't sound so naughty when you say it."
He looks at me. "You fucking drunken idiot."
"I know." I start to light a cigarette, but instead stare raptly at the flame on my lighter. "Would you like some booze? I'm sure I've got some. You can drink it and I can watch. Won't that be dreamy?"
I've decided I'm going clubbing this week. We've clearly reached a point where I am artificially in love with the whole wide world and should hug it. "Hug" may be a euphemism, but let's make the most of it while it lasts, eh?
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