Lost

This evening I went out for one quiet drink, but because I forgot that I was in the company of bankers, and they were paying for all the loopy juice, it wasn't one quiet drink at all, but a never ending stream of booze down my neck, into a stomach untroubled by wastes of space like food. At some point food did appear, and for one happy moment I thought I could soak up some of the drink with onion rings, but I was swifly diabused. Calamari is made from beautiful, fun loving squid, not from our friends in the onion family. There was nothing to dilute the alcohol, except for more alcohol.

I could at least comfort myself that I was drinking with bankers, and therefore if they went to work tomorrow feeling a bit rotten, the worst that could happen was that they'd foreclose on the Greek debt and the entire financial system of the world would fall over.

Hang on. That's quite a bad thing, isn't it?

Having filled myself up with funny fuel, I realised that I should really get myself to bed, as eight a.m. phone calls with the States don't go great if you've been ragging it as hard as you can the night before. Come to think of it, eight a.m. phone calls with anywhere don't go well if your face is stuck to the pillow with drool and you miss the first half of the call because you're actually unconscious. Why did I arrange things like this? It's very confusing.

Still, I couldn't stay out all night. I decided to walk home, and not take a taxi, out of some misplaced sense of parsinomy, or thrift, or a simple desire to get so amazingly lost that I had to phone my wife and get her to explain to me where I was, using only clues like "a big bridge" and "a neon light" and "so cold, so cold" until I was within striking distance of my bed. It's a wonder she puts up with me. I really would be lost without her.

Well, I'd be lost without her. And I'd be lost. Is that romantic, or just a demonstration that men don't always have the sense of direction they think they have?