Pissed. No, really pissed. It's hot, very hot. Work Xmas party. I ate prawn cocktails and eye fillet, rare. We were @ Young & Jackson's. It was a boozy affair. I drank James Boags. I sat opposite Charlie, we smiled coyly at each other. We, actually, walked down together, oblivious to our co-workers coming up behind. We chatted and laughed. He's really nice.
They all went onto the River Bar, afterwards. I, wisely, staggered away. Charlie had gone home too. Last year I got home @ 3am, after ending up at some nightclub dancing, off my cha chas. (Or was that the year before? Can't remember.)
"You're a good dancer," they said.
"It's all a part of the poofter gene," I said. "You trade catching and throwing for an ability to dance."
I don't remember the walk home.
I've been lying on the couch with my arm across my forehead, since I got here. Bang, bang. Oooo! Alcohol is not my drug of choice.
Lovely Sebastian is here. He is laughing at me and my decrepitude. He is staying for a couple of days. He's getting his CV together, so he can apply for a job, possibly be sponsored for residency. He has tourism and social work degrees and speaks five languages.
Did I mention that it is hot? I took migraine tablets. Oh my head!
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