Yesterday was St Patrick’s Day. At least I assume it was yesterday, tho’ frankly I have no clue how long I’ve been unconscious. It could have been aeons for all I know. Squinting out the window I see what look like Morlocks shambling across a blasted post-apocalyptic landscape, but then again maybe that’s just my neighbours dealing with similar drink-related disorders.
Whatever. If they are Morlocks, the worst they can do is eat me, which will at least stop the horrible jackhammering going on somewhere just behind my sinuses. In the meantime I swill the beermonkey out of my mouth, pop a couple of pills, and head back to bed.
My wife appears at the bedside, attempting to communicate. It could be about shopping, it could be about infanticide – her voice has suddenly become a cross between a foghorn and those “mwah mwah mwah” adults from the old Charlie Brown cartoons. After a couple of sentences she notes my expression of goggle-eyed, pasty-faced incomprehension and goes away again, possibly in search of a ouija board.
A few minutes later a big glass of water and a cup of coffee miraculously appear on the bedside table. God bless her little cotton socks…
St Patrick yesterday, in his various Ulster incarnations. That man has a lot to answer for.