The weekend – welcome to it


My wife met me after work today and ushered me into the bar over the road. I was planning on being industrious and collecting my dry cleaning this evening. It is a Friday night after all: that’s the one day of the week when we traditionally neglect our drinking duties and attend to chores.

Drunk on two drinks? In the old days, I wouldn’t realise this catastrophe, and I’d keep drinking till the bar was shut, till I’d gatecrashed a party, till I’d drunk every bottle of gin, lighter fluid or toilet cleaner I could lay my hands on, till I’d thrown up on my shoes and been chased down an alleyway by an angry bridegroom with a meat cleaver at two in the morning. In Croydon.

But I’m not in Croydon, I’m in sensible Singapore, so after two drinks, we went to a shopping mall and were underwhelmed by a succession of tablets. I wanted to be excited. I had money to burn. I had an earnest salesman to talk to, but still I just couldn’t be persuaded. I must truly be getting old, when the idea of happiness being obtained simply through electronic geegaws does not convince.

Either that, or all the money I save by not buying a tablet I can put towards buying a secondhand go kart that catches fire the first time I drive it. That’s a much more satisfying way to spend your money.

We dined at Pastamania tonight. Singapore has a plethora of food, at all prices, of every flavour, and we chose to eat cheesy garlic bread at Pastamania. I assume that’s because we like bread so white and puffy it could pretend to be an Arctic gale. The relentless processed carbohydrates must have soaked up some of the booze in my gut, for I began to feel sober. What was I doing in Pastamania? Was I a Pastamaniac? Or were the staff only hired if they could demonstrate terrifying compulsive disorders to do with Tuscany?

Tomorrow we’ll go to Mexican Depressive.

Or maybe we’ll stay in. It is going to be Saturday, after all.


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