Sangria

Today I had a sort-of-surprise birthday lunch, in that several people had inadvertently alerted me to it, but I was still surprised at how much sangria I could drink.

Just like for our engagement party, by continuously drinking sangria for five hours, the alcohol gradually crept into my system, until I thought it was a good idea to go to East in Tai Koo and drink martinis at the rooftop bar.

This wouldn't have been difficult, except every two minutes we stopped while somebody buttpunched somebody else. It was that sort of cultured group which has discussions of French Impressionism and ... buttpunching.

Once we were actually at East, we were too drunk too even contemplate ordering a tree made entirely from sausages for dinner, so we made do with cocktails and then yomped over to Quarry Bay, desperate for tacos but denied, as our favourite taco purveyor had closed for the night.

Fortunately (or lamentably), the Hong Kong Brewhouse was still open to serve us more booze and a selection of disgusting food: bowls of peanuts to fling at one another, a burnt veggie burger, a gargantuan lump of battered fish and a pizza brought over by a waiter who coughed into his hand like he was prepping some 'special sauce' to go on top.

My fiancee was so unimpressed by this offering that she carried on biting me instead, until my shoulders were like so much corned beef. I never realised that I constituted a major food group: maybe that's a compliment. Thankfully the punishment ended at 10pm when we leapt in a taxi, ostensibly to go on to three other parties, but in fact to collapse shuddering in the apartment, swearing to never touch the demon drink again.

Got home, found that the picture I've commissioned from that nice Mr John Allison of Scary Go Round is almost ready. Hoorah!

Also, got home, found my fiancee's hands were covered in chilli oil residue and she can't remove it. This is rather painful, and possible karmic retribution for me shouting out "chilli powder" at the improv show last night.