Suffice it to say Sunday morning was not one of my better days. It involved beating my head against a wall to try and lessen the pain of the remaining alcohol swimming in the bleary recesses of my brain.
So what happened on Saturday?
I’d like to call it the “Case of the Twelve Pints” in classic Conan Doyle fashion ñ not that it was much of a mystery. Saturday was my day of Friends and Family. Tushar and Gayathri went off to Manchester for their friend’s wedding and I was scot free. Off I went to find the Tube station and as a sign of things to come the line was closed. Oops. I decided to put my Sri Lankan-Newfoundland-Canadian navigation skills to use in London: I smelled the air, gauged the direction of the sun and walked off to the east. After about an hour of going south, I abandoned my navigational efforts and found a working tube station.
Morning and early afternoon was spent wandering around London. Good thing I chose a day when England was playing their first World Cup game and one which was also coincidentally the Queen’s 80th birthday. At least I didn’t feel too lonely on the streets of London. By 3pm I was running off to Victoria train station to go to Bromley South to see my very pregnant first cousin, Chandima. For the count I had had two pints and a large PIMMs by the time I left Bromley South a few hours later for Central London to meet my close friend Seamus Heffernan.
Chandima was fair popping with her daughter-to-be. Her husband (Gihantha ñ a lovely man) was slowly going crazy as a result of her somewhat temperamental wishes late in pregnancy(I do love her to bits by the way). My uncle and aunt were also there for a mini family reunion. Then off to meet Seamus. This time my Sri Lankan-Newfoundland-Canadian navigational skills only left me about thirty minutes late. Apparently my Tube dyslexia turned “Piccadilly” into “Jubilee”.
So if you’ve kept count, you must be wondering where the rest of the pints came from. Seamus turned out to be the local quiz master at his pub. Need I say more? There’s a quaintly odd feeling aroused by being in an English pub with six or seven regulars (including the manager) watching Argentina beat the Ivory Coast in the World Cup. The English do not like Argentina. Can’t possibly imagine why…
At 3am I was cordially dropped into a taxi at Holloway Road for a rather expensive and long taxi ride with a gent from Bangladesh named Ramen. A drunk Dups makes friends everywhere. At least I made it home even if I talked the poor driver’s head off about Sri Lanka, South Asia and their troubles.
I don’t remember walking up to Tushar’s; I don’t remember falling asleep; I don’t remember falling asleep on my head and hence inspiring a back pain that lasted for two solid days. (Guy gave me a disapproving look which means her son Arya will be kept away from my evil influence ñ and rightfully so).
So thence we come to Sunday morning: hungover, unable to turn my head very far and severely dehydrated by the time Tush and Guy returned from Manchester.