The Lost Weekend

I was to be a social butterfly this weekend.  On Friday I attended a book launch for an anthology of stories by some writing student colleagues of mine.

For some reason, I thought this event was to begin at 8:30.  It turned out that it was to begin at 8.  I arrived home from work sometime around seven fifteen and decided that feck it, I’d put on a decent top and even a bit of makeup and my dangly earrings, and make the effort in general. 

I used my brand new eye makeup, which comes with full instructions on how to make your eyes "pop".  I fecked it up, of course, but at least I tried.

I even used hairspray.  A rare enough occurrence for me.  My hair is so difficult that I usually slather it with expensive conditioners, try not to blow dry it too often, straighten it, beg it to behave itself, whisper my wishes to the Gods of the crazy hair, and leave it to its own devices.

 It always ends up doing what it likes, and sometimes hairspray actually makes it easier for it to go mental, because when it stands out from my head, or curls up, or whatever other mischief it is making that day, the hairspray seems to hold it in its new position.

Anyway, it turned out that the book launch started at eight o’clock.  When my friends arrived to collect me, I hadn’t even put my mascara on.  I’d lost half an hour.  The half hour in which I was to have something to eat.

That wouldn’t have been too bad in itself, had we not decided to go for a drink after the readings.  I had two large drinks in a very short time, and I admit it, I got a bit giddy.  I’m a disgrace to my bloodline, I really am.  Anyway, after the drinks, I insisted that we couldn’t go home without our midnight chips.

Midnight chips, as I’m sure you know, are the chips you eat when you’ve had a few drinks, for no other reason than you’ve been drinking, and which you normally don’t finish, having had dinner before you go out.  But I was starving. We went to the nearest chipper, and I had chips and a chicken fillet burger.  This chipper was previously untested by my friends and I, and after my two drinks I decided that anyone with such a smiley face as the man who served me had to care about hygiene, and food poisoning and what have you, and chanced it.

That was a mistake.  On Saturday morning I was quite green around the gills.   Not violently sick as such, just generally unwell. 

I didn’t notice when His Nibs woke me first, before eight o’clock in the pigging morning, because I was so busy telling him to belt up.  I thought he was sleep talking.  He kept saying I was being attacked. 
He got so offended when I swore at him and insisted that he leave me alone that he decided not to fill me in on what was happening, that my laptop had contracted a much more serious illness than mine. 

An illness that would effectively eat up its usefulness, destroy internet access, demand that I buy some extremely dodgy non-existent software to repair same, and then steal our credit card details and rob us blind for months to come.

He waited until I woke of natural causes, quite late in the day, to fill me in.

Thank God he has a laptop too, so I was able to look all this up before I did anything.  It took hours to sort out, and we had to buy some proper software to do so.  And all the time I was giving out, and panicking because every word I’ve ever written is on the laptop, including some pieces I have to send to my current writing teacher today, and swallowing nausea. 

I was supposed to spend Saturday afternoon doing a final edit and printing out a number of pieces of writing for some upcoming competitions.  I like to enter writing competitions, if only because I think that some day they'll pity me and give me a prize for effort and persistence.

Eventually the laptop and I both recovered, and I decided that I would make it to my next social engagement.

My friend was having a 40^th birthday party, and the theme was the 1980’s.  I had watched, bemused, as the ladies attending bought colourful stilettoes, and lace fingerless gloves, and legwarmers, and boob tubes and little skirts, and decided that I couldn’t go.  I just can’t compete with skinny ladies in dresses.

Inspiration struck, however.  I’d go as a Curehead.  There were quite a few of them around in the 80’s, if I remember rightly, and some of them not a million miles away from my own homestead. 

 

I bought some leggings, and some droppy, droopy black clothes and black nail varnish and eye makeup and bright red lipstick.  Diva red, in fact, a colour I don’t usually bother at all.  I’d backcomb my hair, and I’d be all set.  The beauty of it was that I was wearing the whole ensemble with flat boots, and was looking forward to partying the night away in the most comfortable costume ever.

Once I decided I was definitely well enough to make the drive to Dublin for the party, I became re-energised.  Only to discover that it was snowing.  Properly snowing, fat white flakes that sat on my car and collected, and “stuck” as we like to say in Ireland.

Of all the talents I don’t possess, driving in adverse conditions is the biggest one.  I once drove my car to the train station in the snow, in an effort to get to work.  By the time I got to the station, and rang my boss to tell her the stupid signals had frozen and there was no train and I was too cowardly to keep driving, I was more or less in tears.  I hadn't driven the car to the station.  Not in any real sense.  I'd just sat in the drivers seat, white faced and terrified, while the car sort of danced around the road of its own accord.

I just can’t work it out.  It’s like driving in floods.  I can never remember if the car should be in high or low gear, if you’re supposed to steer into or out of skids, and what the feck that means anyway.  Surely if your car is in a skid you can’t really steer it at all?

I began to fear for my night out.  And when the snow finally stopped, and froze solid, so that there was a layer of hard ice on it, I had to give up the ghost.  I was going nowhere.  I’m far too much of a gom to take to roads in that condition.  It could only end in tears and insurance claims.

I was to stay with a great friend last night.  I see her reasonably often, but her small daughter almost never.  This little girl is feisty and wilful and funny, and I want to bribe her into loving me.  I was looking forward to it.  And obviously I didn’t get to go there either.

I’ll probably never dress up as a Curehead now.  Instead of going out for lunch with the lovely ladies today I haven't even gotten dressed yet. 

We haven’t had Sky since before we went on our holidays last month, so I can’t even watch stupid weekend television to comfort myself.   Seeing what Judge Judy’s guests are suing each other over usually makes me feel better about my life. 

I suppose this could be called a Lost Weekend.