TraceysTrek

Danny and Sara invited me out for some food and a drink last night. As I wasn’t driving, I decided to make good use of my bus pass and travel for free.

That was probably the last sensible decision I made all evening.

There was good reason for a celebration. Sara had interviewed for a new job during the week and had been successful, gaining a promotion. Naturally, this called for champagne.

Out came the bottle and the evening began with a bang — or at least the satisfying pop of a cork.

It didn’t take us particularly long to drain the bottle, and we decided it was time to move on in search of food. And, as it turned out, considerably more drink.

As it was already getting quite late, we jumped in an Uber and headed to Sara’s favourite pub. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a table available for dinner, but we managed to find seats in the bar and could order from the bar-snacks menu.

Obviously, we needed a large glass of wine while we studied it.

There was just one small problem. There was virtually nothing on the menu that I could eat apart from chips.

Danny and Sara, meanwhile, tucked into pork skewers, chicken croquettes and various other dishes while I made do with my chips.

By the time the food arrived, however, we had already finished our first large glasses of wine.

So we ordered another.

We were having a fabulous evening, chatting, laughing and playing cards. One glass became another and another. Then came last orders.

Well, you can’t ignore last orders, can you?

“One more for the road.”

Eventually Danny and Sara poured me into an Uber and sent me home.

It was only when I got out of the taxi that I realised I might be a little worse for wear. Getting the key into the lock proved considerably more challenging than it normally does, and once inside I’m fairly certain I bounced off several walls on my journey to the kitchen.

It was at this point that I had a revelation.

I hadn’t eaten much all day.

I had eaten very little that evening.

And I had been keeping up, glass for glass, with Danny and Sara.

This was not going to end well.

I decided that tea and toast might save me. After all, that was what I used to make for the boys when they came home worse for wear after parties.

How the tables have turned.

I managed the toast. The tea defeated me.

I staggered upstairs, climbed into bed and was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

Then I woke.

There is a very particular sensation that tells you something catastrophic is about to happen.

I leapt out of bed.

Not quickly enough.

What followed can only be described as a projectile eruption of red, fizzy vomit. In a moment of panic, I made the catastrophic mistake of putting my hand over my mouth.

This did not stop it.

Instead, it simply redirected it through my fingers in multiple directions.

I dashed towards the bathroom, leaving a trail of destruction behind me.

Eventually, when my stomach had finished completely evacuating its contents, I managed to get into the shower before staggering back to bed and passing out again.

Then came morning.

I opened my eyes feeling decidedly fragile and eventually surveyed the scene.

Oh. My. Goodness.

It looked as though someone had been murdered.

There were red wine stains across the light-grey carpet. Red splashes up the white walls. Clothes hanging on the door were covered in what looked remarkably like blood spatter. The doors, bathroom floor and toilet had all been caught in the carnage.

Apparently, trying to stop projectile red-wine vomit with your fingers simply turns your hand into a sprinkler system.

CSI would have had a field day.

Unfortunately, I also had a monumental hangover and still felt decidedly queasy. There was absolutely no possibility of tackling the crime scene immediately.

Instead, I went downstairs, ate some breakfast and sat on the sofa feeling extremely sorry for myself.

Tea.

More fluids.

Something resembling lunch.

More tea.

Eventually I felt capable of confronting the devastation upstairs.

Fortunately — or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it — my stomach contents had consisted mainly of red wine, so at least there wasn’t the revolting smell of stale vomit to contend with.

I was convinced the carpet was ruined, but thankfully I had some rather miraculous stain remover.

Nearly an hour later, the evidence of the previous night had finally disappeared.

After all that, I needed a bath — partly to cleanse myself and partly to recover from the trauma of cleaning up my own personal murder scene.

Later, I recounted the whole sorry tale to Will.

His response?

“How old are you?”

He then pointed out that surely, by now, I should have learnt not to drink that much — and, more importantly, that eating some food along the way might be a good idea.

I did think he was one to talk!

Still, I had to concede that he might have a point.

So there is a moral to this particular tale.

At 62, I am definitely old enough to know better.

And apparently I am also old enough to have completely forgotten everything I once taught my children about drinking responsibly.

Most importantly…

Never try to keep up with the young ones.