Okay you have been warned: the title is, once again, a horrific pun.
And as predicted, today I was a bit worse for wear. A small bottle of only mildly alcoholic fizz will do that, when combined with mad excitement and no dinner. Also, I am getting old (dammit). However mortifying this discovery was, though, it may be one of those Blessings In Disguise. If I had eaten dinner, for instance, it would probably have been the chicken casserole. Which, I discovered after taking some to work for lunch, was not cooked all the way through to the bones. That’s what comes of trying to defrost the stuff in a really efficient fridge, I guess. So, I coulda been REALLY worse for wear. Coulda been throwing up like anything in fact, which would be bad news because I have a ticket for My Chemical Romance tonight (see, that’s the ‘high’ ‘romance’ bit covered, told you it was awful) – and last time they played I couldn’t go see them because… I was throwing up like anything. Always wear a dustmask when the instructions tell you to, peeps!
Since my Cellmate is on her hols this week, I staggered through my work-load as hard as I could and hopefully nobody could tell. The upside of being a bit The Worse For Wear is that it anaesthetises you to the Fear of New Things; in this case, the fear of going to the gig with my Colleague of Skull Scarves and her hubby. (This is not the ‘romance’ bit, I should point out). Ooh! New socialising opportunity! Now, we get on at work, and we get on when we go for coffee, and we get on at staff nights, but will we get on in a more informal setting?
I walked through the drizzle to her house and presented another bottle of wine (this week, I am the Wine Fairy) and we drank it and had chicken fajitas and truly, that was the best I had felt all day. And the chicken was cooked and the lime-and-chilli marinade she made was AWESOME.
And it was a very nice, chilled-out night. They bought me a glass of red in the bar and we sat and chatted, and then we stood and bopped about… ooh, I don’t have the knack of reviewing gigs, I really don’t. It’s embarrasing, but there it is. I enjoyed the songs, I ogled the singer (at my age…), I particularly enjoyed the part where your man co-fronting the support band, whose name I tragically cannot recall, asked the audience if we would like to know A Fact, and we had to yell ‘Yes, Sean, what is this Fact, please?’ (I got really excited and supposed it was going to be something recently discovered about dinosuars. Or even sea sponges. I was so wrong.*)
*(‘The crowd at the Birmingham gig was better than you lot’ – bah, I thought an opportunity to learn something interesting was surely in the offing! Oh well.)
It was generally excellent, and I heartily enjoyed it, but shame to tell, I am officially getting past it, because my favourite part of the entire day, even beyond the Being Fed Food, and the wine, and hearing, erm, all their (probably) more stereotypical songs live and branding myself as a fairweather fan, was… getting a lift right to my door and going to bed. Le sigh. Of bliss at being horizontal!