A hard start or a hard finish

Last night I was at Coq & Balls, a classy Australian bar in Tiong Bahru. In a good example of being hoist upon your own petard, I’d been out at a work do and told my wife I’d be home by 9, and then been persuaded to go for a drink after the meal and then another drink, and before you knew it my phone had a flat battery, it was midnight, and I was walking home.

When I got home, I realised the front door was locked. I’d left my keys in my backpack, which was on the sofa. I tapped quietly on the door, not wanting to rouse my children. No response. I tapped a little more. Still no response.

Through the spy hole, I could see all the lights were on, I suppose to welcome me home, or because my wife was asleep in the living room. I kept tapping. No response.

I thought about banging louder, but what if the neighbours were disturbed by a drunken man banging on the door and called the police? The police probabky haven’t forgiven me for wasting their time with that hammer a few months ago. I tried turning my phone on. It has just enough charge to start up, go through the boot sequence, and then switch off again.

I tapped on the door some more.

I could have gone to the office, I suppose, but my pass was also in my backpack on the sofa, so then I’d have to explain to security why they should let in a half-cut member of staff at 1am. No need for that conversation.

Now, we bought some lamentable chairs from Ikea which never stayed together – the seat cushions kept falling off. We’ve stored them outside the flat, in preparation for disposal. I figured I could lie on them.

I couldn’t, unless I contorted my body and prepared to roll off them onto the concrete floor. So then I figured I’d take the cushions off and lie on them instead. And for the first time ever, one of the cushions was securely screwed to the chair frame.

I lay down on the other, contemplating using my shoes as a pillow, and had half an hour’s sleep under the bright hallway lights, before I woke in agony, body bent and crushed by the hard floor. There’s nothing worse than going to sleep drunk and waking up half an hour later, in the midst of a strange superposition of drunkeness and hangover. I tried to sleep again.

At this point, like an angel my wife materialised, having awoken to find herself alone at 2am and curious as to where her husband was. She let me in, blaming the kids for locking the door, and I got to sleep in my bed.

Until 3am, when, because I’d washed all the salts from my body using booze, my left calf cramped up so hard I woke up screaming, and had to limp around the office all day wearing a compression sleeve. Ah, I’m too od for this world.

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