Where did that drinking ability appear from?

25 Jan

The delightful hours between 4:30pm and midnight were spent drinking. Stubbies and jugs and bottles of wine interspersed with cigarettes and chatter. And I only felt tipsy and benevolent towards the world.

Obviously, (to borrow from Austen) it’s a truth universally acknowledged that when in possession of a tidal of booze, I am the world’s most fascinating raconteur and bewitching bon vivant. However, I was slightly stunned at just how much drinking was required to absolve me from the previous days – and that I still felt relatively sober, if not charmingly whimsical. As a community service to my friends, I spared them my charm and whimsy via text message. For I am a river to my people (though a vile empty taunter to the Goddess).

The Shrew and I started out at work where many festive drinks were plied, hugs doled and pings ponged before heading to the city (where one must take a breather and have a quick snifter at Degraves) and onwards to her local, the Empress, where the ale was pale and the carpet vivid. Mr Shrew came to pass the time with us and fall in love with a non-Seagull toddler who was rocking the most impressive mullet I’ve ever seen. Naturally, the only way to end such an evening was to accuse Shrew of lunar conspiracies (once again, charmingly whimsical of me but really she is quite responsible for the comet and moon hiding behind the Carlton landscape) and, in a nana-turn, request a warmed milk before bed (Shrew was charmingly whimsical and insistent that I spend the night at their lovely abode where I had strange dreams on the futon).

Here’s the thing I love about Melbourne: in all of our stops, Shrew and I came across people we knew. At the cafe, on the tram, walking down the street and in the soothing confines of the Empress. Smiles and hugs everywhere. Such a small town that, though there are a preponderance of places to visit, you’ll always run into someone irrespective of whether you’re at a cafe/pub or down a laneway or on a tram. It’s all very “Parker Posey, you fat fuck!” (which is now the cri de jour betwixt the sassy Purdy Jane and myself)

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