I’m swearing off alcohol – well, until the Good Food and Wine Show at least.
And yes, I’m sure you’ve all heard me say it before, but this time I’m serious, largely due to the effects of what I believe was my very first forty-eight hour hangover.
Apparently, on Saturday night, my hand had a mind of its own, lifting glasses of wine and champagne and shots of tequila to my mouth at regular intervals without any input from my brain.Which might not have been too bad a thing, considering my head was switched to Autopilot itself: Jade is not in right now. Please leave an appropriately detailed message. And hand me another glass of wine.
Saturday night at Andy Warhol’s Factory - aka Princess Lara’s twenty-first - neared the hedonistic proportions of its original life in the sixties, and I have the blacked-out spaces in my short term recall to prove it. Nuthouse would be an accurate description.
Highlights of my evening, as detailed in the harsh light of Sunday morning by the incredibly patient, forgiving Boyfriend:
- Tequila
- Tying back the birthday girl’s boyfriend’s hair while his champagne made an urgent and unexpected exit
- Saying goodbye to birthday girl asleep on dance floor on brother’s mink bolero
- Insisting to Boyfriend after we’d left that the night was still young and that we either a) wake up his friend to go visit his house in Camps Bay for a dip in the jacuzzi or b) hit House of Rasputin (thank god Boyfriend has some sense of decorum unlike hooligan girlfriend and drove us straight home despite my screeching to the contrary)
Incredibly, when I woke and staggered in search of liquids (the Morning After Thirst having arrived with a vengeance), noticed I’d somehow managed to remove every scrap of my professionally applied MAC makeup before passing out. Further investigation revealed false eyelashes nestling safely in their dinky plastic container. Now how did I manage that? Autopilot is good for something…
No comments:
Post a Comment