One of those days...

When you just want to go home, pour yourself a big drink and pass out with something completely inane playing on the telly. But then again, I had the entire weekend to prep for a bad week - you know the time when you see a big painted Tata truck driving on the wrong side of the road screaming towards you, but you still don't take evasive action, because this is India after all. But then again, my day could not have possibly been a tenth as bad as Ricky Ponting's. I'm actually thinking of running off to catch a few days of the Test in Delhi next week, though the city's smoggy overhang, particularly after Diwali will make for interesting air quality to say the least and I wouldn't want to hang around a place not protected by air filters, i.e: the open.
OK, now to get home.

Epiphany!

I find myself having joined the ranks of the thousands of drunks who facing down a toilet bowl full of their half-digested food suddenly decide that enough is enough and finally have the guts to admit that they have a 'slight' drinking problem. On saturday night I was at some WIFW party and well, to put it bluntly, my old friend Johnnie snuck up behind me and whacked across the skull with a bottle. And matters were made worse by dear friend Doc (when the models come to play, others follow...) who discovered that Red Bull and Johnnie Black make for an amazing combination.
I do not know what happened after two at night, its like a blur. I could have slobbered all over someone, and if I did I really apologise. Somehow at four in the morning I found myself hurtling at 180k's down towards Noida and beyond in my car and it took me a second to realise that a friend was driving it. Then I ended up at another friends house, who just heard me on the phone and figured that I might kill myself if I got home and generally that I needed someone to make sure nothing happened. Net-net, on Sunday I woke up with not the mother of all hangovers, because I did throw-up, but I felt like shit. I still feel like shit, and its Tuesday.
I have no idea how much daaru I tanked down, but I'm pretty sure it must have dangerously close to "Let me try and kill myself" levels. I don't know who I'm kidding, I'm not 18 anymore and I can't pull off such stunts without doing serious damage. So I have made the following decisions.
For reasons slightly to do with health and self-preservation, I am not drinking for the next three weeks - that is until I turn Thirty minus two. OK, I will leave myself a little loophole, which is that my only drinking will be white wine, and a maximum of two glasses of that. After my birthday, we will hit the gambling season, and even though I'm sure Johnnie and his dear friend Jack plan to pay me several vists over those days, I will hopefully manage to enjoy their company a bit less.
Plus, I have started walking/jogging again. OK, so it was basically an excuse to buy some nice new shoes, but still.