I Must Confess…the designated driver
This week’s prompt was ‘inspired’ by the events of my work farewell.
Since I don’t have clear memories of the entire occasion I have asked my husband to be completely honest and spill the beans for me.
So enjoy the tale…
A good hangover story? Is there such a thing? I can remember several outstanding hangovers – like the time I vomited glow-in-the-dark yellow – but I cannot remember many good hangovers. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? When you have one of these so-called “good hangovers” you are not usually in any condition to enjoy the shenanigans. Sometimes you don’t remember the events leading to the hung-over state, or the aftermath at all.
You know what I’m talking about, right? Those (hopefully rare) occasions after a big night out where you wake up with a throbbing headache, the taste of ash in your mouth and the burning question, “How did I get into my pyjamas?” Those mornings where you follow a string of discarded clothes down the hall, wince at the explosion of noise from every dripping tap and gasp in horror at the number of empty wine bottles on the kitchen bench. The days where your partner’s cheery “Good morning” makes you want to round-house kick them into next week – if only you could raise your head high enough to see exactly where they are. Those moments where you ask yourself “What the hell happened last night?”
It’s these occasions that have the potential to become a “good hangover story”, if only someone was around to remember them…
Kirsty had one of those days recently. She had her very last day of work and the obligatory celebrations that go along with such an occasion. She had a great time over lunch with her former colleagues who were all very excited to see the normally very sensible Kirsty swallow a bottle or two of apparently easy to drink Sauvignon Blanc. There were flowers and wine and tears and laughs and everyone had a wonderful time. I remember because I was the designated driver.
I remember everything.
The party continued after we got home. That wasn’t the plan, of course. We were driving two-hours north the next day to pick up Gilbert from his grandparents. We needed to be in tip-top condition to deal with a boy who had just spent a week being spoilt rotten.
We decided to cook a roast for dinner. Kirsty tried to help but when she put the lamb in a freezer bag and then tried to put it in the oven, I took over. I prefer my meat to not be shrink-wrapped. Kirsty kept me company over a glass of wine. I realised she’d had enough to drink by now because of the number of times she told me she loved me.
Really loved me.
No, honestly, REALLY LOVED ME.
I suggested we switch to water or lemonade.
“Lemonade!” Kirsty replied. I went downstairs to get a bottle of lemonade only to return to the kitchen to find Kirsty with an empty bottle of wine in one hand and an overflowing glass on the bench. She had managed to tip half a bottle into the glass, and onto the bench, and the floor…
“I thought we were going to have lemonade, sweetheart?” I asked gently. Is it just me, or does everyone talk to drunk people like they are children?
“Oh,” was Kirsty’s only reply. Then, like one of those drinking bird toys that sips from a cup, she leant over the bench and slurped from the wine glass. A big, noisy slurp that sucked wine right up her nose. If wine wasn’t everywhere before, it was now!
I sent her upstairs where she occupied herself playing with the girls. I busied myself in the kitchen, but a little while later I knew something was up. It was too quiet. “Hey, sweetheart? Everything okay?” I called up the stairs.
I found the girls playing with Mummy. Like a doll. There she was, asleep on the floor. Matilda had lifted her head to put a pillow under her. They had covered her in a sheet.
I took advantage of the moment by taking photos. Because, honestly, how many opportunities will I get?
Oh, there are many more where that came from…
It took a LOT to wake her up. It might have been a bit mean, but our daughters were all keen to have a “sleep over” with Mummy on the floor and I knew that would not end prettily.
I managed to wake Kirsty up, get her to drink a bottle of water and even eat some dinner. As I was getting cutlery I made a conscious decision to only offer a butter knife – after the wine glass incident I didn’t know what she might do next! Have you ever seen a drunk person try to cut meat with a butter knife?
Anyway, dinner, shower and bed. A simple plan, obviously hampered by Kirsty’s total inability to undress herself. She managed to tie her arm behind her back trying to take her dress off and I found her turning in circles like a dog chasing its tale. I finally got her to bed. She was unconscious before her head hit the pillow. It was 8.30pm.
The following morning was much like I described at the start of this post. Where are my clothes? Who drank that bottle of wine? Why is that pink sheet out? At least, that’s what I imagine it was like. I wasn’t there – I had to drive two-hours north to pick up our son.
I can certainly confirm that the next day was hideous. Delilah castigated me for falling asleep while playing with her while Matilda laughed at how funny mummy looked on the floor. Meanwhile it took me all day to feel half human again after hugging the toilet bowl on multiple occasions and nursing a very tender head…
Thank goodness for Nathan being the designated driver. And I don’t need alcohol to declare to all that I really do love him!
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