A friend was ribbing me about being out again, after last night's excesses. Choosing between staying at home feeling tired and cranky and heading out to the charming 12 Square Metres bar for a restorative malt whisky had seemed a no-brainer to me. I replied:
"There's hair-of-the-dog, and then there's Laphroaig. I am a very classy drunk."
The Laphroaig was slipping down particularly well, and I thought I'd rise to the challenge of killing off the bottle (only two more measures left). Also, I was waiting for a friend who was taking forever to get there, which was making me late for a musical rendezvous elsewhere. I apologised:
"Sorry - got sidetracked by unreliable friends and reliable whisky. Will be there for the 2nd set."
Later, one of the Pool Bar regulars asked me if I'd like a game. My rueful response:
"Yes. I want MY GAME back. Have you any idea where I left it?"
(I have not been playing well of late.)
Another great night; but considerably more moderate than the one before.
No comments:
Post a Comment