I wake up. I have a hang-over. My head would feel better if it had and axe sticking in it and if I could choose what to have in my mouth at this exact moment in time I would select a live hand-grenade over my own tongue. My bare, curtain-less window spews light into a room that is white all over; the walls, the ceiling, the furniture - everything is brilliant white and I every time I open my eyes I want to have the removed. The bathroom has blinds, a warm bath and a CD player and I stagger into it and bask in the darkness. I put "Let It Bleed" in the CD player, crank it up and sink into the bath delicately. I think hangovers effect different people in different ways, for some, loud noises are the bane of their existence until they can locate a box of painkillers and a bottle of gin. With me it's the light. Even with the blinds closed on a west facing window at eight in the morning I still screw my eyes tight as "Gimmie Shelter" shakes my brain loose. I lie there for about an hour while my body slowly forgives my mind for last night's mistakes. When they've kissed and made up I extricate myself from the tub, get dressed and slink downstairs. The house is empty, save the dogs and Radio 4 which is never, ever turned off. My brother and sister are at school, my father is at work, my mother is having tea with a friend and I am abusing study leave like the rest of the nation's A-level students. I don't bother with breakfast, I'm never hungry in the morning and I remember that there is an bottle of Bell's in the liquor cabinet that I have to replace before it is discovered empty and I end up in the shit. I put on the biggest, thickest, darkest pair of sunglasses I can find and move slowly down the hill towards the off-licence.
It's a bright, sunny, beautiful spring morning, the clouds are like cotton balls, the sky is as blue as the Caribbean Seas and the Sun hangs loosely in space, enjoying its surroundings. I squint my way down to the the off-licence, ask the bloke for a bottle of Bells, pay the man and leave. My dad's birthday is in a few days and as he's into jazz I decide I'll get him a vinyl recording of "Kind Of Blue". I walk down to Ben's Collector Records and have a look around. It's a small, hot, dark and claustrophobic place full of vinyl, CDs, tapes and audiophiles thumbing through endless crates, searching for a gem. By the time I've got down there I'm out of breath and puffing and the heat is starting to make me sweat. I stumble to the "jazz' section and start looking for Miles Davis' masterwork. The heat of the room is really starting to get to me, I feel nauseous and frail and weak and I'm now sweating heavily through my T-shirt. I hold myself up against the table as the room spins and shrinks very quickly. My chest feels like a lion is standing on it, my eyes are being squeezed out of their sockets and my mouth is full of cotton. I've got to get out of here. I reel out of the shop and begin to make my way home, head down, shoulders bent and clinging to the bottle of Bells, my house is about a ten minute walk up hill and ten minutes later I'm not even half way. Panting like I've just finished the marathon I clamber up the hill, clutching to the wall. The bottle is awkward and heavy and I alternate between hands and holding positions as I try to find a comfortable way of getting it home with me. I want to collapse and fall down and never get up again because I don't think I'll be able to if I hit the floor. Finally I reach home, the keyhole moves around as I try to get the key in it and when I'm in I crawl upstairs, throw the bottle to the bedroom floor and fall onto the mattress - breathing hard, sweating harder and waiting for the room to stop spinning.
I have the feeling that this describes the experience of something in excess of 85% of the student population. The distinction is that of those 85%, 74.38% would not be able to articulate it, let alone write it.
ReplyDeleteYou lose marks, however, for typos.