Wiping the vomit from the corner of my mouth with a Rizla paper last night, eyes still watering, I saw that a tramp had witnessed everything. Happily i'd managed to puke neatly into a discarded paint tin but really - vomiting one's expensive meal in front of a tramp is too naughty.
So I dropped a £20 shame payment into his delighted lap as we passed and as soon as we were beyond earshot my friend Caspar flipped.
"Dude! What is wrong with you! We've got to talk about this man - something's wrong. Don't go to Wales. I'll come round, cook you dinner, we'll talk this through."
"Whoah Caspar, I'm fine. OK perhaps having a minor moment but no crisis!"
"No way - you have to tell me what's wrong. I'll call you tomorrow"
Shit - he was really worried! Caspar is someone I've known since school (in fact he's a close friend of Blond Brainbox's ex, but that's another story) and he suffers pretty frequent depressions during some of which I've acted as advisor. The idea of having him counsel me was not something I've ever considered, indeed would ever consider, even if i thought i needed help, which I don't. But it was weird seeing him concerned and eager to help like that; perhaps he saw a chance to repay something.
So back in the office I am:
- touched at his concern; but
- somewhat annoyed at myself for exposing what i admit may have been a slight chink in the armour; and
- of course, mediaevally hungover.
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4 comments:
What is this Wales trip about - something akin to self-flagellation? Or am I missing some sort of secret code?
he he -
don't...
go...
to...
wayeels.....
will delete one.
was gonna go hillwalking but not sure i'm up to the drive tonight.
Ah, boys, and their total dislike at showing any signs of (imagined) weakness to anyone. It'd be endearing if it weren't so silly.
Oh, and fat Coke for that hangover.
It is pretty silly, that's why we need girls: to fess up to.
Coke and ready salteds - spot on!
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