Over Christmas and New Year I was rotten with flu and didn’t go out once. I stayed soberly at home beside the fire with the family and enjoyed every minute. The first time I ventured out, still feeling ropy, was on Saturday morning for a look around the shops. As I came out of Superdrug, I met Sasha. She was wrapped up warmly against the cold, except for her bosoms, which were recklessly exposed and showcased by a black, lacy push ’em up and point ’em out bra. We hadn’t seen each other for months and we warmly embraced. ‘Drink?’ I said. ‘Ship?’ Sasha had lost her purse again, she said, and was retracing her steps in the high street; but yes, marvellous, sauvignon blanc, dry, large one. So she went off to find her purse and I toddled the 50 yards down the road to the Ship and ordered a stiff Bombay and Fever Tree for me and a large sauvignon blanc for her, receiving 50 pence change from a 20 pound note. I carried the drinks outside and bagged a table.
It was pleasant to sit at a table next to the busy pavement with my first drink of the festive season and feel back in circulation among the high street shoppers. Presently, my old friend Tom came by. Spotting me, he leapt the knee-high plastic hedge and embraced and kissed me with his customary zeal. I hadn’t seen Tom for ages, either. He took a seat at my table and rolled himself a cigarette with trembling hands and related incidents from his Christmas bender. His face was crimson and his speech was thick and he seemed psychologically fragile, teetering on a brink between melancholy tears and helpless mirth.
His bender had begun when an old friend turned up, offering to help him over his grief for his recently deceased brother.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in