Episode 48 – Do I Make More Sense When I’m Drunk?

I think it’s about three am. IMMA but drunk. I’m a school night. That’s bad. Isn’t it?

(Clearly, I was pissed when I wrote this. I am no longer pissed.)

Today was Miss Marple’s birthday; well yesterday was: December 10th 1921. Imagine that: being born four days after the Treaty was signed. My Nana is only four days younger than the Irish Free State. She was alive when Collins was shot; when the civil war broke out; when O’ Higgins had his best man, Rory O’ Kelly, executed; when the Emergency started she was already used to hard work and living on nothing.

Sometimes I think I can see everything:

I don’t know what exactly a few Bombay Sapphires were enables me to see but clearly wasn’t the sense to drink water before I went to bed.

And that’s where I fell into something of a false sense of security the other night, thinking I would feel better the next day. I’d had a gravelly chest, niggly sore throat and headache for a few days but five hours after writing whatever the fuck that is above I woke up to a migraine and general flueiness which I know wasn’t really flu because medical people get really strict about the classification of viruses (why isn’t it “virii”?) and infections and colds and flus. I guess I’d get snarky if someone confused a villanelle with a sonnet.

Anyway, I felt like shit. Like a big pile of AnnaPuppy’s poop after she’s eaten half a hairbrush and a few hundred slices of multi seed bread. I had to cancel visiting The New Yorker, such was the radius of the snot producing aura around me and stay home and sleep fitfully while intermittently gargling warm water and salt which, let me tell you, is less preferable than the TCP Miss Marple used to force onto our vibrating tonsils when we were kids with strep. It’s like oysters: the most over rated swanky “foodstuff” in the world: I once had to spit mine out into a napkin in a super suave eatery in Bristol with Father Rory Best sideeyeing me disapprovingly. I couldn’t swallow the fucking thing: it was like a big lump of congealed cum. And I wouldn’t swallow that either.

Have I put you off your brunch?

How did I even get to oysters?

Oh yes… So I stayed in bed most of Thursday and honestly I felt a bit dead. Not in attendance. Absent. Níl sí anseo. Tá sí as láthair. In absentia. I felt nothing all day except physical pain and discomfort but my mind was completely AWOL. I felt justified in staying in bed because I displayed outward symptoms of physical illness. I wasn’t just being a lazy bitch.

I longed for Thursday to be over. I wanted my aching body to feel a bit better and my brain to switch back on which is a good thing because it means I wasn’t afraid of being back in my head having been out on temporary release.

I slept badly on Thursday night. Sweats. Nightmares. But Friday was better. I got some stuff done. Just basic groceries; electric; dog walking; showering; napping; dating (nice guy) and Christmas treeing.

Our tree is very different. We usually have a real tree: pretty traditional. This year we went for a fake half tree with a snowy effect and blue and silver decorations. Yes. ElsaDaughter’s frozen needs are being catered for. It’s cool, trendy, stylish but I miss our mismatched baubles and tinsel. But this is the new streamlined version of me and it starts with Christmas: I am a six foot six, strong yet elegantly branched plastic… This metaphor is not working. Out with the old dead, rotting, sacrificial mess of Christmases past and in with the new, more durable, scaled back version of myself, is what I’m trying to say.

If AnnaPuppy doesn’t stop farting I’m going to puke into my smoothie.

I popped across the street to pick up some walnuts to put into my porridge (I like a bit of crunch) and of course did that thing where you think to yourself, “I don’t need a basket, I’m only getting one thing!” and then when you get to RoboWoman who is obsessively anxious that you “Please take your items” and get the fuck out of her checkout zone, you have dropped a bottle of maple syrup more times than Luke Fitzgerald gets injured. Somehow some peanut butter and blueberries cost twenty one euro. Well there were a few other bits but nothing that you could actually eat for dinner, more condiments, garnishes and things to spread on other stuff that I didn’t buy and I thought about how expensive it is to try to be healthy, if you want berries and nuts and the shit health gurus tell us will promote serotonin levels and lower your cholesterol induced tightness of chest (yes, I’m making this up).

I should really go for a run. I mini walked les dogs. But there’s rugby on all day and of course, Leinster at the Aviva against Harlequins tonight which should be unbearably Baltic.

I hate the cold. I hate how my skin turns a lovely shade of patchy blue and my eyeballs freeze over. I love the heat in my bones, sweating out the fear of a dark lovely night.

Anyway. I should go sort out that laundry. The laundry in the picture from a previous post. I haven’t cleared it, I’ve just added to it. Now there’s a metaphor.

DR 💋

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