I WANT TO BE DRUNK

The thought occurs to me, as I sit behind my desk reading about the complexities of enumerating residents of communal establishments, that I’d like to be drunk.  I can’t concentrate on anything then, nothing can touch me, I’m invulnerable, invincible, unshakeable and most of all I am not bored.

I can chat to my mates and sound really clever, because they’re drunk too and no-one knows the difference.  The food is excellent, it lines the stomach and we can have more alcohol.  The measures get stronger.  At some point people start to leave.  If something happens, if I flirt with someone I shouldn’t or someone who shouldn’t touches me, it’s OK, nobody remembers, not my husband, not his wife, not me and I always know when to go home – I think.

When I’m drunk the music from my Ipod sounds louder and I dance round my room, shaking my body in a tipsy state of high energy, pausing only to work back some more gin.  Then the tracks slow down and I lie on my bed and drift off in a pleasant haze, surrounded by cotton wool, perfectly safe, barely alive.

Only to wake at 3am, it’s dark and uncomfortable, I’m still wearing my bra, I’m not sure if I remembered to take my coat home with me.  The world feels wrong, my husband is sleeping beside me, but I’m all alone.  My thoughts are huge, they won’t stop.  I get up and go downstairs.  I turn on the light, my coat is thrown down on the sofa; things are where they should be, except in my head, that’s all jumbled.  I saw him in a new way, didn’t I?  Something happened, didn’t it?  Fucked if I can remember.