I lie in the semi-darkness covered in a film of hangover
sweat, grunting gently, trying to stay as far away from consciousness as
possible because of its accompanying unpleasant sensations.
In this semi-cogent state, images that might be dreams but I
am concerned are replays of the night before swim involuntarily in and out of
focus.
Gigglingly smuggling armfuls of Junk Corona into bags, and
crowingly drinking our ill-gotten gains on the bus like rowdy 6th
formers.
Hanging around the trendiest joints in Lan Kwai Fong,
gleefully drinking cheap shop-bought beer, like a 15-year-old with cider behind the bike
sheds.
Inelegantly scooping a third vodka jelly shot onto the back
of my hand and messily guzzling it with gusto, like at a 6-year-old at a children’s
party who’s been told to have just one helping.
Being offered the mike by the Insomnia cover band’s lead
singer to do a couple of lines from I’m
Walking on Sunshine, and obliging with enthusiasm.
Bantering with a confidence only drink can bring in
Cantonese with a very indulgent taxi driver.
Eventually, I could take the montage no longer, opened my
semi-glued eyelids and staggered out into the day. For once, we are going to do
nothing. After some fortifying eggy-bread,
I blearily constructed this enormous umbrella (courtesy of the lovely Seven in
China, like the hammock) so that we could have a proper lazy day on the
terrace.
Pleased that’s the last Junk for a while couldn’t do that
every week, says I. What’s that, Claire? We have another booked next Saturday? As
I lower my sunglasses and have another gulp of berrocca, I shudder. Half in
anticipation. Half in dread.
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