 Mist swirled in progressively tighter spirals while a film of gray; saucer-shaped stains flew in formation across a boiling whirlpool into a jagged hole. From the depths of the abyss, a circular, jelly like, lacework of images floated into focus. Projecting from the center of the display, a Chinese paper lantern perched, perfectly balanced, on a rod straight piece of electrical cable.
Squinting up at the ceiling with blood-shot eyes while the bed spins, is no mean feat.
I groaned as three liters of whisky, red wine and the odd pint of beer threatened to sneak past my parched throat, disguised as an acidy slush. Prince was on the radio, Martina Navratolova on television, rain in the heavy sky and deep, dark, desperation in my heart; my stomach wasn't feeling too good either! Sundays have never been kind to me.
Trembling fingers claw a cigarette from the pack, stuck it up the nostril, flap the lips over an imaginary butt and lit up my mustache. Within a micro second , with an agonized yelp, threw myself on the floor, thumping my face into the ash-tray which extinguished the fire and left me the shocked owner of the smoldering remains of the once quite impressive pair of whiskers, a blinding headache and a bloody nose. Sundays are a bitch!
While waiting for the brain to rock back in place, glanced over to the inanimate body in a fetal crouch, buried in blankets, forefinger securely lodged up her nose. What a party! Can't remember where or whose it was, but it will come back to me by Friday; if the room stops spinning by then!
What was her name?… Finnie…Fila…Filo; Filo, that rings a bell somehow; talking of which, I wish the ringing in my skull would stop, it's not doing my fragile state of mind any favors. The ringing, I discovered, was coming from the direction of the door, in ever decreasing intervals and ever increasing urgency. I also discovered I was in somebody else's house, which accounts for the door being in the wrong place. Fair enough, thinks I, as I drag my carcass in the general direction of the din, feeling as mean as a myopic monster on a miserable Monday morning. It took all my strength to lift myself on my knees with the help of the door handle. Heavily sedated and uncoordinated I jar open the door and let out a strangled "what'd f@#k d'ya want!?!" into a chest of brick toilet-block dimensions topped with a very good imitation of a very large scowling sledgehammer. A World Wrestling Federation T-shirt, leotards, and boots adorned the beast's body; icy cold sweat adorned mine.
E-mail to Ray Agius: Ramel@bigpond.com
|
|
