Obviously this post is pretty retrospective, seeing as it's now late January, however I have had a lot on my plate, including, but not limited to; visiting the half-built Olympic park (pics soon), possibly being convicted for fraud (more on that later) and of course eating.
Last Christmas, my sister Fleur and I solemnly swore that we would be responsible for the cooking and preparation of Christmas dinner this year, for six people.
Christmas eve came, and we shopped all day, for ripe cheddar cheese, the kind that comes coated in wax and is so strong it gives you blisters on your gums; rich, smoked salmon; gin, and enough red wine to supply all the churches in England with Holy Communion refreshments for the next decade.
We made individual smoked salmon terrines, and put them in the fridge overnight to set. The salmon and cream cheese mixture was frothy and I got shouted at for licking the spoon. It was rich and lemony.
The problem started after the preparations had been made. My sister and I both ventured into town to meet our respective groups of friends, agreeing a curfew of 2 am to make sure we could be up and feeling fresh to start the preparations for what promised to be the feast of the decade.
Now I am a strong believer in the 24 hour drinking law; and I can only say that the events that ensued serve as a testament to the reasons why a strict 2am deadline to finish drinking by can only be a detriment to society.
Deadlines, by both and nature and name, are designed to strike fear into the hearts of all who are bound by them. Tonight the sense of urgency caused by the deadline monkey on my shoulder was no different from the impending doom of my dissertation earlier in the year, or of the murky rising waters of panic inflicted by perspiring, angry journalists on the phone at work. Anyway, I digress; I knew I only had a short while in which to get completely fucked up. I made good use of that time by inventing flamboyant cocktails with my good friend Martin, and then drinking them very fast in between shots of sambuca.
If you are wondering whether I made it home in time to meet the curfew, well rest assured, the stress of university and working with the media has made me a veritable deadline-meeting machine. I met my sister on time, at the designated location. We travelled home in a taxi, and were in bed by half past two.
That's when the nightmare began....
Despite the careless hedonism of that drive, the atmosphere was tinged with unspoken sadness. Just two hours previously, Geoff had confessed to me that he was gravely ill. He was riddled with HIV, which is bad enough, but it was made even worse by the fact that it was the Eighties. He didn't explain how he got it, but I didn't think it was from doing heroin. I knew that Geoff was a man who chased the dream, not the dragon, so I thought it was best not to push him for an explanation. Luckily, we hadn't had sex.
Wheel-spinning away from some traffic lights just as they turned to amber, the Jag left the highway and into the desert. Most cars didn't have air-con yet, and the Jag was no exception, so Geoff turned the fan up to full blast. It blew his thinning hair back slightly like Michael Jackson in the Earth Song video. I undid a couple of buttons on my dress, which was red with huge white polka-dots on. I was also wearing gold accessories.
The Jag sped through the desert for another half an hour. The atmosphere inside was static, and made my head sweat and my hair frizz. I did not speak, in my mouth there was a metallic tang of sexual tension, stale cigarettes mixed with my Chanel no5 and pheromones. I gazed at the arid landscape flashing past the open window, and tried to compose myself as we headed towards the secret base, where we were due to take part in the Mayor's civic prizegiving ceremony. The fan in the Jag did not compensate for the heat, and I was drenched in sweat by the time we arrived. I flung a silk scarf around my shoulders to disguise the wet patches.Geoff's shirt was still white and pristine, but as we left the car he removed his tie and tossed it recklessly onto a dark antique wooden cabinet as we entered the building.
The room where the ceremony was due to take place had huge wooden doors that slid silently apart as we approached, like in Star Trek. I say as we approached; but actually Geoff had already picked up the pace, and was now striding far ahead of me. It was too dangerous for us to be seen together.
An usher showed me to my seat near the back of the room. It had a gold embossed card with my name on, which I tucked into my handbag as a souvenir. After a few minutes commotion, during which time other important men and women arrived and lit up cigars nearly as big as Geoff's, the ceremony began. It was particularly dull, but I knew it might be Geoff's last, so I waited with anticipation for his turn to take the stand and receive the MBE.
Overhead, one of the ceiling fans ground to a halt. The air was close and stuffy with sweaty fabric and boredom. I realised that I hadn't eaten since the meal last night, and my temples pounded with cocaine and dehydration. I suddenly felt faint, and grey matter swam and buzzed before my eyes like angry flies. Through the swarm, Geoff was walking to the stage, and the sea of big man's hands clapping was like a thunderstorm inside my skull. Adrenaline twitched my calf muscles and I felt my mouth fill with acid, that familiar hot watery feeling that meant I was seconds away from vomiting slime all over the well-heeled lady sitting in front of me.
Desperate to recover the situation, I tried to swallow the acrid vomit in my mouth, which made me retch even harder. Trying to disguise my juddering gag reflex, I had no other option than to be sick discreetly into my silk scarf. Thank God I had worn it! After silently throwing up a couple of times into the scarf, I realised I had gotten away with the incident, as luckily, the collective smell of old lady perfume and body odour filling the room was disguising the smell nicely. I took a deep breath and relaxed into my chair...
...It was Christmas morning. The sound of the alarm I had set last night was ringing somewhere in my handbag across the other side of my room, and I could hear my sister cheerfully shouting at me to wake up. I opened my eyes further...to a sea of vomit, covering myself, the duvet and the floor.
It was hell. My mum made me throw out my duvet and scrub my sheets in the bath, as I retched with every breath. I couldn't eat any breakfast, and lay on the sofa until I had to be sick again. I called out to Fleur but she didn't come to my aid, so I dragged my sorry self back to bed. When I woke up, my relatives had arrived, and nobody was allowed to open their presents until after dinner. I only managed two mouthfuls of the dinner, which in fact was deliciously cooked bymy sister and dad, who then got all the credit.
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(characters in this story are purely fictional and are not based on anybody in real life)
