John Dennison opened his eyes and for around 30 seconds he felt quite good. In fact, he felt far better than any man of his age who had been out drinking until 2am had any right to feel.
“I’ve still got it,” he chuckled, and congratulated himself for sticking to spirits all night.
“Hangovers are for the poor,” he thought. “Stupid people who mix their drinks to get drunk. They deserve to feel like crap when they wake up.”
Then suddenly, in an “oh no” second of regret, misery and realisation, the memory of what had happened last night and the knowledge of what awaited him today flooded his booze addled synapses and he clasped his pillow to his face whimpering.
“Oh no,” he gurgled into the crisp linen pillow slip, ‘what the hell am I going to do?”
His cellphone chirruped at him from somewhere in the pile of clothes discarded at the foot of the bed. He checked the time: 8.30 am.What sort of time was that to wake a man on a Saturday morning? It could only be Angie, txting from the downstairs bedroom about taking Clemencey to the pool.
She hadn’t talked to him face to face for a month now, not since the day he’d told her they could lose the house. Actually that was a lie, he’d told her they could lose everything, and to say she wasn’t pleased was an understatement.
She’d moved into the other bedroom immediately, only communicating with him via txt messages and random acts of vandalism. The day he’d come home to find his favourite golf club bent into a corkscrew, burning in a pyre on the lawn, was a particular low point.
That had been the day Max’s school in Christchurch had emailed to say that the fees hadn’t been paid for quite sometime and perhaps it might be best if Max undertook his schooling closer to home. John interpreted the burning golf club as a sign that Angie didn’t like the idea much but then again Angie didn’t really like anything much these days, least of all him.
He rolled out of bed on to the floor.
The “oh no” moment had also brought with it a thumping hangover headache. He felt it wouldn’t be a good idea to stand up just yet, just in case.
John belly-crawled to the ensuite and filled the toothbrush glass with water. He raised it to his lips to drink then, thinking of his behaviour at last night’s Primary School Art Auction, he tipped the water over his head instead and hoped that what they said was true and you really could drown in a couple of centimetres of water.
It was the only hope he had of getting out of what had the potential to be a very nasty situation.
All characters in Remarkables Lane are fictitious and any resemblance to any person alive or dead is purely coincidental…. No seriously, you’re really not that interesting