The very arduous week of alcohol abstinence is finally over.
This week there will be fesitivities, yes! Giggles and more.
I took a few slaps on the hand when self-restraint crumbled ruefully;
And retired like a sulking child to my corner.
It worries me that even when sober I fail to recall still-fresh conversations.
On Saturday night I chatted with a random stranger for over an hour. I remember that we had a moment of some sorts, but cannot, for the life of me, remember what about.
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I've received 5 missed calls from a silent number over the past week.
The caller must have the most unfortunate sense of timing,
Because everytime s/he's rung, I've been in the shower or toilet. And I honestly don't spend that much time in either. In fact, no more than a meagre 4.17% of the day. I answer 99.5% of my calls.
And no messages left. This, I find savagely galling.
If you've tried ringing someone for a week, and kept getting the message bank, wouldn't you leave a goddamn message? Even if it's only short. Something like, say, 'It's me. Ring me back'; or 'It's Eugenie, been trying to call you. Pick up your fucking phone.'.
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When this week of backbreaking work is over
I'll learn to take better care of my shoes.
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While on one of today's many cross-suburb drives,
Massive Attack's Teardrop came on.
The sun conquered thick fog,
Blessed my dashboard, and soul.
I thought about the mid-autumn mornings in that little terrace on Abottsford St,
When Liz Fraser rang through the rooms that smelt like cigarettes.
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