April 26th, 1989

April 26th, 1989

At home

Mum was full of the joys when I finally surfaced this morning (is half past eleven still considered morning?)

“What time did you get in last night?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I groaned. “Late.”

Filling the teakettle with water, she said, “It was just after one.”

“Why are you asking if you already know?”

Coyly, she said, “I was in the bathroom.”

In an effort to try and steer mum into a different conversation, I said, “I’m glad dad’s feeling better.”

“Aye, it was just a wee bug he had.”

“That’s good. He certainly looked much better last night.”

“No sooner were you and Jon out the door when dad said how highly he thinks of Jon.” Just in case I’d suddenly lost my ability to understand English, she added, “Dad’s awful fond of him.”

“Yes, I know that mum.”

“He is a lovely guy isn’t he?”

“He is, yes.”

“Did you have a nice wee time with him?” she asked, smiling widely.
I nodded my head, realizing there was no point in even attempting to get mum to change the subject. “I did. We had a really good chat and lots of laughs.” Rubbing my head, I said, “It feels like I drank enough for both of us though.”

“Uff,” mum said, waving her hand, “You were just enjoying yourself. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I guess not. He’s very funny and never runs out of things to say.”

“A bit like you,” she said, handing me a mug of tea.

“And you.”

 

The phone rang (thank you for saving me!)

“Hello?”

“McGarr. How bad is the hangover?”

“What hangover?”

“The one you must have after drinking, ah, let’s see, a bottle of wine, followed by…”

“Oh no. Was I that bad?”

“Not at all. I thought you were fantastic actually.”

“Very funny. Sorry if I was a pain.”

“McGarr, stop. I had a great time with you. Even if you did get plastered.”

“I wasn’t plastered,” I pleaded.

“More like sloshed.”

“Stop it! I was not. I was slightly tiddly.”

He pretended to clear his throat. “I’d say more like paralytic.”

“Ugh. No wonder I feel so rough.”

“That’s because you were Brahms and Liszt.”

“Get you with the cockney rhyming slang. Are you done trying to make me feel worse or can we leave it at that?” I asked.

“Let’s leave it at that and do it again soon.”

 

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