Sunday, December 28, 2008

Of Korsakoff

The morning after the work Christmas party, my alarm clock disturbs me. I monitor my systems for guilt: an underlying tremor, but that's just a constant thing I like to maintain so I don't become too cavalier. I move onto my memory banks: patchy. An argument, but one I largely kept on the sidelines of, flaming Drambuies and Sambucas, acceptable levels of piss taking of people usually too important to take the piss out of. Nothing bad; excellent result. I move onto my physical state - a tolerable headache, no mysterious bruising, all in order. Colleagues can be faced.

I laze in the bath, lounge as I replenish myself with cereal and a pint of tea, and ease into my clothes. I'm pretty pleased with myself.

I step outside and pace up and down in front of the house. I look around the corner.
"Where the hell is my car?" I begin to muse, before cutting myself off. "Cab. I got a cab home."

I arrive at work an hour late, and everyone laughs at me.

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