Single? Single malt...

Yesterday morning I woke up at 10.30 am, sweating and anxious, there was something I’d forgotten to do, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what it was.  My heart was pounding, there was a light film of sweat on my brow and my mind was racing. 

‘Have I missed a meeting?’ was the first thing that came to mind, ‘Not again,’ I groaned, struggling to focus as I reached across to look at my phone.  ‘Aaaahhhh… its Sunday,’ I sighed with relief, sinking back onto my pillow, ‘but what then?’  

I slowly started doing a recap of the night before, struggling to remember what got me to this dark place filled with pain.  I remember a big glass of little wine, it was good wine, and there were several glasses.  I see flashes of conversation, rugby, log tables, a bulldog, a ginger Scot....  Hang on, a Scot?  Hmmm…  ‘Surely not?’  Quick glance across my bed, but there was no one there, the sheets were as smooth as ever, nary a crease in sight.  ‘Figures!’ I snort, ‘I never get lucky on Saturday night.  I've always wanted to be a redhead...’  Back to the night before, trying to piece together events as they unfolded.  There was someone from Barcelona, or was that on TV?  No, there was a Barcelona man, and elections, and a single malt.  ‘Aha!  It was the single malt.  Bastard!’ I winced as I attempted to get up, my head was throbbing like a disco in Madagascar, tiny little things jumping up and down in my head…

Fast forward a couple of hours and a greasy fry-up later and I’m still anxious.  Something’s wrong.  I struggle to get up and start to wander around my (and I use this term loosely) house, hoping that the walk will help clear my head and jog my still hazy memory.  No dishes in the sink, no laundry to be done, the floor looks a bit dusty but that can wait.  Then I glance at my desk and it finally hits me, I haven’t posted anything today.  Shit!  I sit down in front of the laptop, but I don’t switch it on.  It occurs to me that I have nothing to say.  No, that’s not true, I have loads to say, I just don’t have the strength to hold my arms elevated long enough to do so, I’m even struggling to hit the power button.  ‘But you have to post,’ responsible Alex wails, ‘you promised!’  ‘Promised who?  Or is it whom?  See, I cant even figure out my grammar,’ still slightly drunk Alex whined, holding her aching head in her hands, ‘it’s not like anyone will notice anyway, they’re all busy getting on with their exciting lives no?  Let’s go back to bed…’  This discussion raged for all of one minute, then I had to go get more water for my oral re-hydration.  All thoughts of posting were promptly dismissed.

Good morning folks, it’s a new week and happy clappy Alex is back.  Life gets clearer through the bottom of a whiskey glass. 

POSTSCRIPT: ONE DAY LATER...
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce the ever loquacious Cheupe, coiner of random words like dirteous, asseous and escapadenia.  God help us all...