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Oct. 30th, 2007 07:53 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pallas_athenaI'm back. Whitby was lovely: old friendships renewed, recent ones strengthened, new ones made. This October's vibe was especially good, I think. (Although I don't have the group photo to prove it, because the wind stole my copy and blew it out to sea.)
The nucleus of the weekend's loveliness was the flat I shared with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
speedlime and velvetdahlia, roommates extraordinaire; the only sad thing was the absence of the splendid pvcdiva. (Next time, eh what?)
Today I will write about a subject which is of great interest to all: drunkenness.
Most people who know me know that I drink but rarely, so I have to choose my occasions with care. However, I'd been virtuous all month and I was damn well going to have a drink on Saturday night at Whitby. My excellent cottagemates had quite sensibly gone home around midnight, and it occurred to me that I was on my own in the Spa for the first time ever. It felt tremendously liberating-- usually decisions are made in the Spa on the basis of where one's pack is, and there I was, packless.
"I'll go check out the band!" I thought, "and oh, the bar's closing-- I'll get a last glass of port." Only one of these decisions was sensible.
It was the last port that did it. I'd hitherto been pleasantly mellow, but that small measure of garnet-coloured Mediterranean nectar crossed some kind of blood-brain threshold and catapulted me straight over the horizon. All of a sudden, I was drunker than I'd been in years. Last time I was this tanked was, I don't know, late '90s? That evening whenmothninja and I and another friend settled into Garlic and Shots and they eventually gave up pouring shots for us and just left the bottle on the table? Yeah.
I realised I had arrived at the I-fucking-love-you-man stage, and prepared to do my drunkard's duty by seeking out people I knew and telling them that I fucking loved them, man. However, while I'd been blissfully attuned to the music in the music-and-dance room, everyone I knew had left. So I joined the crowds exiting the Spa along the seafront road, alone with the god Dionysus using my braincells as a dance floor.
As drunkennesses go, this was a very good one. It felt sunlit and happy and infinite. I'm thankful for that, because I don't think I'd ever been this plastered when alone, and if it had been a negative drunk the result would have been terrible. What did I do? I stepped up on the grassy verge at the top of the hill by the arch of whale ribs, faced the sea and sang my heart out. The fact that I couldn't walk straight seemed no more than a minor inconvenience. (Not in years have I been so pickled I couldn't walk straight.)
So that was my experience of what is a routine occurrence for many, but a rare one for me. I can see why people do this regularly, why people (including some of my family) get addicted to this feeling, and why the Greeks equated being pasted with being god-inspired. Will I be doing this more often? Probably not, but it's educational to have been there.
The nucleus of the weekend's loveliness was the flat I shared with
speedlime and velvetdahlia, roommates extraordinaire; the only sad thing was the absence of the splendid pvcdiva. (Next time, eh what?) Today I will write about a subject which is of great interest to all: drunkenness.
Most people who know me know that I drink but rarely, so I have to choose my occasions with care. However, I'd been virtuous all month and I was damn well going to have a drink on Saturday night at Whitby. My excellent cottagemates had quite sensibly gone home around midnight, and it occurred to me that I was on my own in the Spa for the first time ever. It felt tremendously liberating-- usually decisions are made in the Spa on the basis of where one's pack is, and there I was, packless.
"I'll go check out the band!" I thought, "and oh, the bar's closing-- I'll get a last glass of port." Only one of these decisions was sensible.
It was the last port that did it. I'd hitherto been pleasantly mellow, but that small measure of garnet-coloured Mediterranean nectar crossed some kind of blood-brain threshold and catapulted me straight over the horizon. All of a sudden, I was drunker than I'd been in years. Last time I was this tanked was, I don't know, late '90s? That evening when
mothninja and I and another friend settled into Garlic and Shots and they eventually gave up pouring shots for us and just left the bottle on the table? Yeah.I realised I had arrived at the I-fucking-love-you-man stage, and prepared to do my drunkard's duty by seeking out people I knew and telling them that I fucking loved them, man. However, while I'd been blissfully attuned to the music in the music-and-dance room, everyone I knew had left. So I joined the crowds exiting the Spa along the seafront road, alone with the god Dionysus using my braincells as a dance floor.
As drunkennesses go, this was a very good one. It felt sunlit and happy and infinite. I'm thankful for that, because I don't think I'd ever been this plastered when alone, and if it had been a negative drunk the result would have been terrible. What did I do? I stepped up on the grassy verge at the top of the hill by the arch of whale ribs, faced the sea and sang my heart out. The fact that I couldn't walk straight seemed no more than a minor inconvenience. (Not in years have I been so pickled I couldn't walk straight.)
So that was my experience of what is a routine occurrence for many, but a rare one for me. I can see why people do this regularly, why people (including some of my family) get addicted to this feeling, and why the Greeks equated being pasted with being god-inspired. Will I be doing this more often? Probably not, but it's educational to have been there.