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Posts tagged ‘drunk’

Small, drowning mammals

Fitz and Belle arrived yesterday for a five day holiday to see a bit of the country. Unfortunately, little of the country has been visible through the mist, fog, cloud and swirling rain.

About the only sensible response was to drink plenty of alcohol, which we duly did. Husband is presently lying in bed moaning, and I’m trying to remain optimistic that Fitz and Belle are still alive. The only noises I can hear are multiple plops and small drowning mammals. And the occasional chilling moan.

We will probably aim for the same effect for the remaining days of Fitz and Belle’s visit – although we will be trying to minimise the moaning

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Contemporary romance

I’m on a roll: NZ Immigration approved my residency visa ‘in principle’. It has been two weeks since Husband and I groveled along to the Henderson branch to submit a rose tinted account of our relationship; more evidence supporting our entirely contemporary frenziedly nibbling romance; and faxed references from friends and family.

Thanks a million to all who summarily supplied letters at such short notice: you rock.

It was particularly stressful writing a description of our relationship that didn’t include the words ‘feckin langered’, ‘champagne goggles’, ‘copped a grope’, ‘tummy burp’ or ‘what can you expect? – he’s a Kiwi’.

Since then, I have obsessed in vibrating 3-D Technicolour about being kicked out of the country (that’s when I wasn’t obsessing about my Little Black Dress contract.) Every time a car came up our road, it was the police arriving to escort me to the airport and see me onto a plane to – who cares? Eritrea – Husband sobbing uncontrollably as I desperately clutch his grasping fingers. The last thing I hear as I am dragged by the heels into the waiting aircraft nursing my broken digits is Husband wailing:

“My darling, wait for me! I swear to you: I WILL FIND YOU! <Get your filthy hands off me Plodfreak; I’m a New Zealand citizen.>”

Thankfully, not many cars come up our road.

Hey! – another idea for my second novel. I tell ya, they’re coming thick and fast these days

Charred sausages

I am delighted to report that we have had two days of torrential rain and flooding. Ok, it wasn’t torrential as not really that torrential at all much. Although for this part of the world and comparatively speaking, one could argue that without much flexing of imagination it could be described as ‘hosing it’. There was definitely flooding; the city always looks like it’s been cast adrift when it rains.

 

On Sunday, Andrew got up all excited about frying up a big breakfast on his new barbie, but it was raining so hard he had to erect an umbrella over the grill. I had visions of the brolly going up in a raging explosion of flame but thankfully all he charred were the sausages.

 

Andrew accuses me of simply making up large swathes of my emails, but that is a vicious fabrication and completely untrue. He just doesn’t understand Imagination – but then again it takes a while to learn the language. However, the rain brought out Andrew’s creative, expressive side. We were driving across the city to pick up David for lunch. Somehow Andrew got on to rain-themed names for perfumes (we were very bored).

 

“How about: ‘Splatter’?” proposed Andrew. “Maybe better for an aftershave?” he said upon seeing my look. “What about Drizzle?”

 

“Maybe more appropriate for an olive oil.”

 

“How about Drench?”

 

“Isn’t that a worm treatment for cattle?”

 

“Right. How about: Rain. Rain: You’re All Wet. That’s the byline: ‘You’re All Wet’. Get it?”

 

“Yes. There’s probably a very good reason Giorgio never went for that.”

 

We picked up David and went to mOre’s, where we all sat around a bit soggy and gently steaming. We were rather stuck as to what to do with ourselves, so ended up going to see Casino Royale for the second time. What a movie though. Ok I’ll admit it, I have no idea what the plot is about but am most taken with Daniel Craig’s clenching jaw in a swimsuit.

 

Tell the truth, we weren’t really up for much, since we were still recovering from Thursday night. It was the Christina Noble Ball, the only real opportunity we have to get poshed up and glam all year.

 

Generally my makeup is limited to stabbing my eyes with a mascara wand and a quick suck on a stick of Lobello. In honour of the special occasion, I cracked out the powder (literally – it looked like a scaled down version of the Bonneville Flats), concealer, blusher, eye shadow and lip-gloss. Having spent about half an hour on my eyes, I was concerned that it was a little on the dark side. That’s the shade, not The Force as applied by the Siths.

 

When Husband came in from work, he was sitting on the bed taking off his socks and I sashayed out of the bathroom, issued a sultry pout, and said: “Andrew, what do you think of my eye shadow? Is it ok? Not a bit heavy, is it?”

 

Andrew said . . .

 

Sorry to hold you in suspense, but this deserves a moment for dramatic effect.

 

Andrew said:

 

“You look like a drug addict.”

 

Carole said the eye shadow was very subtle, but I’m not sure whether she was just being nice.  

 

“You look gorgeous,” said My Beloved as I drove us to the ball.

 

“Asshole!” I muttered.

 

At the hotel, only valet parking was available. There were vehicles everywhere but in the middle of general mayhem I discerned two loose lines of cars. Behind me were cars flashing their lights and blaring the horns and I had the valet parker waving me to the left. Just to clarify the situation, Andrew said: “Left. Left. Left, left, Left, LEFT, LEFTLEFTLEFT!”

 

“Shut up!” I roared.

 

When we sat down for dinner I was still sulking with him.

 

“Don’t even dream of being charming,” I snapped at him, snapping out my napkin in a way that underscored the sentiment. “Put away those hound dog eyes of yours immediately. I’m sulking really very hard with you at the moment.”

 

(It was a little distressing that he hadn’t noticed up until that point; and even then it had to be communicated via megaphone. I’ve lost much of my pouting ability due to lack of practice.)

 

“Baby!” exclaimed Andrew, who at this point had snorted two pints of Fosters. “But whyee?”

 

“Why? Well, first of all, you call me a drug addict. Then you play with your PDA all the way to the hotel,” – (because he’d played with his PDA all the way to the hotel) – “THEN, you’re all leftleftleft! And now with the big googly eyes. It’s not going to work.”

 

But then he tried to wink, which is such a cheat – he knows it always cracks me up. It’s about the only thing I am aware of that Andrew can’t do. Hack into computer systems? Check. Fix broken cars? No problem. Navigate across Mongolia by the stars? Just point him in the right direction. But close one eyelid while keeping the other open? He’s pure rubbish.

 

(Andrew: “There! There! Look! I’m winking!”

 

Me: “Technically you’re blinking.”)

 

He gets quite annoyed about this fundamental inability (look, even a foetus can WINK). I forgave him when the tears were running down his face after he sprained his eyeball.

 

It was just as well because the guy next to me was putting on some serious moves. It’s only the second time in my life that someone has used the word ‘horny’ in direct conversation with me – I have to say, it’s quite a turnoff. Or am I just a prude? Perhaps it might have been flattering had he not been quite evidently desperate, not to mention sousled and sporting a layer of charcoal on his upper lip (oh please, it’s better if you just don’t ask).

 

According to Belle, Andrew also had an admirer but he flatly denied it under questioning, perhaps because she was a bit chubby.

 

A quantity surveyor showed me a picture of him with two topless women.

 

We got well plastered. Andrew – and this will give you an inkling of how sauced-up he was – hauled me onto the dance floor and started squirming around. Sorry, there’s just no other way to put it. Once he’s had a few drinks he fancies himself as quite the sex god. When Andrew feels moved to express himself via the medium of dance, you might be surprised at the amount of pelvic grinding involved. He also likes to twirl, which is kind of . . . er well, I was going to say ‘attractive’, but in the interests of accuracy I’ll have to go with ‘rotational’.

 

We managed to stumble home around 03:30hrs. When drunk, Andrew likes to nibble my hair and then snores very loudly. What with that and the rattling windows, I don’t generally enjoy much restful slumber post alcohol abuse

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