I bumbled down the road home last night, still warm at 11.30pm and slurping on a blue powerade (is there any other magical non-booze-juice flavour? I ask you. The most revolting colour known to mankind AND YET it has been known, in combination with a potato top pie, to stave off the worst symptoms of excess the following morning. And I wonder why I’m squidgy). Aaaaaaaaaaaanyway, I thought I was the most inventive photographer alive en route and I woke up with a selection of shite photos like this on me telephone:
|SKY TOWER: FESTIVE AND PHALLIC|
My husband was curled up on the couch when I walked in the door. He unfurled his limbs when he saw me, for a great big bear hug. We went to bed; I smooshed my face into a pillow and passed out for the next 5 or so hours. I wouldn’t call it ‘sleep’; more like a boozewhore coma. I had been at a Christmassy dinner with lashings of a tasty Bordeaux blend from the Gimblett Gravels (that’s what the waiter told me anyway, I kept the smug references to (a) that time I went to Bordeaux and (b) that time I got married in the Gimblett Gravels to myself (UNTIL NOW that is. Apparently I have no filter and am perfectly happy to appear like a complete asshole here)).* I got up the next morning easily; ready for the day.
Where am I going with this? Nowhere. Just I might, sort of, be generally happy. At this point in time. Smug, for sure. But happy.
*JC on a stick that’s a lot of parenthesis.