A bit long in the tooth

I'm off out to meet a former colleague for a drink this evening.  It never is a drink, of course, but several drinks.  The English and their euphemisms, eh?  I'm sufficiently old and honest with myself to admit that I sort of dread events like this now.  I used to love them, in my salad days.  But latterly, I just want to have a couple of pints of an evening and cuddle up on the Chesterfield with the missus and episode of Inspector Morse.  

I suppose this is simply an example of life preparing me incrementally of an eternity of oblivion.  The avenues of pleasure become narrower and narrower as one ages, until eventually you lose the will to go on and willingly turn up your toes.  A propos of this, I believe Kenneth Williams' last recorded words where something like "Oh, what's the bloody point?".  Shortly thereafter he swallowed a heroic dose of prescription drugs and died.  Whether this was by accident or design, we shall never know.  But what is clear is that he was increasingly embittered by life toward to the end.

In order to cope with the contradictory demands of revelry and my increasing sociopathy, I set myself a limit of how much I can drink.  This is fine if I know I can shift more than the other members of the party.  Tonight, I can't rely on this physical advantage.  My mate can drink, and quickly.  I don't.  In cycling parlance, I'm a diesel, not a sprinter.  So I'm going to have to manage the situation using slight of hand and misdirection.  Both of which I'm shit at, by the way.

I will only judge the evening a success if I don't have a hangover in the morning.  I'll get back to you on that.

Man up Friday

The back's a soupçon better today, which is just as well because I was in danger of getting downhearted by it all.  Well, I mean to say, it's day two ferrchrissakes.  The best years of my life are being eaten up by this boring condition.

Still, onwards and upwards.  It's off to Kings Cross straight from the office this evening for the two-hour journey to York.  I've procured a massive picnic to see us right en route.  Better that than worrying about being stranded by "a jumper" outside Hitchin.  That's happened before.  And when it does, market forces turn all the travellers against one another.  

Last time it happened, some old hands dashed-off and emptied the buffet car of booze before the engine had even struck the poor unfortunate in question.  The tell-tale urgent braking was enough to alert them to the imminent impact.  It was ten minutes before I realised something was seriously "up".  I trotted off to the buffet car for a soothing 12 cans of bitter, but the cupboard was bare.  A very dark and introspective two hours followed, which I'm sure would have been grist to the mill for Arthur Miller, but which for me was nothing more than a prolonged opportunity to confront my sober unconscious mind.  I did not like what I saw that night, friends.  No, I did not.

Anyway, no danger of that tonight.  We've half a case of Tattinger each if needs must.