The bacon sandwich.

I’ll start by saying that my Sunday blog postings are usually written, and then re-written, throughout the course of the week, and then set to post automatically at ten past midnight.

At the very moment this post went live, I was out in town. In all likelihood I’ll have been quite drunk, and undoubtedly I’ll have been talking nonsense for several hours. Well, slightly more so than normal. Ahead of me will be a stop for food, hopefully, and then a journey home that I may or may not remember. Clearly I should, and do, know better than this. But, you know, I don’t make a habit of it… Once a month, usually the first Saturday, I meet up with some friends for a drink; The Bear John, Ken, and a few others. Oh, and Alan. Just in case we need any arguments about films settling. We drink, we talk, we laugh, we eat chicken, and then we drink some more.

The last time we did this, we forgot to do the chicken part. We also didn’t get any food afterwards, and I can’t really remember how I got home. I do remember though going to the kitchen to get a glass of water, only to find one already set out for me together with some fizzy-make-feel-good. In the morning I awoke with the fear of an almighty hangover surrounding me, only to find that I didn’t have one. How on earth did this happen? How on earth did I escape? I hadn’t, of course, it just hadn’t arrived yet. I was still drunk, and a happy drunk at that. So happy in fact that when Jen brought me a bacon sandwich in bed, I started to cry. At that precise moment it was the greatest, kindest, thing anyone had ever done for me, and I gave myself away…

“What’s the matter? It’s just a sandwich,”

“Nothing. It’s just- I… this is the…”

“Are you still drunk?”

What a Gifford*.

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