Fallout.

Despite my boarding school analogy of this week, alcohol and I met up yesterday evening and had a fine old time, the results of which are doing the cha-cha and the tango about the sensitive parts of my brain this morning. I started sensibly enough, drinking japanese beer and trying to pick up fiddly bits of duck with chopsticks, but somehow more beer did come and less food made it into my mouth, so eventually I was tispy and my friend well on the road to flat out drunk.
Naturally we decided cocktails were the way to go.
Then, after leaving the restaurant and dragging my girlie friend up the bloody street to get her opinion on a dress I've already decided I will buy,( thank you Palesa, it was your suggestion) we had the misfortune to run slap bank into a vengeful French Gay.
'Errr, 'look-ed- what ze cat, she dragged-ed in and spitt-ed out.'
'Are you dressing ironically these days?' I said. 'Or are you an actual pirate?'
'Beeeech.' he said.
'Hello French Gay,' my friend said, but prettily, for she is very pretty and a real lady. Why she hangs around with the likes of me I'll never know. She has probably been in work since eight this morning where as I and my pained head have just rolled out of bed. Frankly I'm guilty m'lud, of leading her astray.
'ello, iz zat Chanel?'
Yes.'
'Eeets beautiful.' He swiveled an eye in my rather Chanel-less direction 'This iz very good to finz you'- he pointed a gallic finger imperiously, 'I am calling in ze favour.'
Now this left me very puzzled, what favour was this? But before I could ask he said, 'I 'ave been invite to a weeding.'
'A weeding?'
Images of wellies and gardening gloves flooded my feeble drink sodden mind. How bo-ho. How chic! Turning gardening into a party, maybe the invites were printed out on dock leaves, maybe-
'You will go with me. Eet iz in Sleego.'
Suddenly a dark cloud descended over me. Daisies and buttercups exploded, not a weeding...
'Oh now wait a second-'
But the French fancy was having none of it. There is a wedding coming up, one of French Gay's dreadful clients is getting hitched. It's in the middle of nowhere, down the bloody arse end of nowhere to be exact, French Gay has to go and now I'm being made to pay for some previously awful karmic sin I didn't even know I'd performed by accompanying him.
This is ghastly. I mean I'm already going to a wedding in December, and my oldest friend will be setting a date for next year too. isn't one a year enough?
And Sligo? SLIGO? Who gets married in Sligo? Why Sligo? Where is Sligo? Oh don't give me that, I know roughly where it is, but really... Sligo? With French Gay and a whole slew of people I neither know nor care a fuddler's curse about.
Why couldn't it have been a weeding, that would have been fun.
Why did I then decide cocktails in the Fitzwilliam was my only hope of dealing with another wedding.
Will I never learn?
Probably not.
Sligo. Jesus.