The Evils of Drink

God, what a night. I had a cricket practice at lunchtime, and was utterly dreadful. On my way to the match I was trying to clear my mind, compartmentalise my feelings the way men can, so all the shit is left for later and I can focus on the game. Its not a skill I have mastered yet. I got there and started to warm up with Andy, bowling a few of my slow girly deliveries at him. It wasn't much preperation for his job as opening batsman, and he hit me all over the park. I came running back, breathless and pink, only to find that our pitch was double booked, so we no longer had anywhere to play.
After ringing around for an alternative, we admitted defeat and went to the pub. I was in no mood for socialising, and all I really wanted to do was go home, eat and have an early night. I started on pints of wife-beater, which is never a great idea, but especially not on an empty stomache. My larger-limit is usually two pints; any more and I'm gaurenteed a head twice its normal size in the morning. I normally move on to single spirits with mixers after my two-pint plateau, but still, any more that about 7 units and I tend to be a little poorly in the morning. But I was trying to drink myself happy. Andy was being grilled by Damon and Tim about his new life in America. He got very interested when they mentioned a loop-hole for extending his 3 year visa to a ten year one. In my mind I was screaming at him 'you fuck, you are going to leave me and not come back ever'. He was detailing the cruises and field work he hoped to go on soon. I did a little mental arithmetic,
'so I won't see you for two months?'
'No, probably 3 months'. I smiled, but the corners of my mouth didn't actually move. I wanted to be home, curled up in bed, feeling cared for and comfortable, with the option of a walk along the beach with dad after tea. I wanted to be protected from the world like a child. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I swallowed all the hoplessness, hurt and devestation along with the stella, and for a while it worked. After a protracted moan about how much I hated my phd, we moved on to happier topics. After 5 pints, I went for a pee, but then found I couldn't stand up. I sat on the floor, and puked and cried, great shuddering sobs. I was utterly distraught, and unable to command my legs to lift my body up and take it home. Andy eventually came in and rescued me. I walked out shakily like a zombie, past all the metal heads listening to the thrash band that I had failed to notice. We made slow progress home, Andy occasionally steering me out of the path of cars and people, while wheeling his enourmous cricket bag. I was sick twice more, and woke at 6 am. I desperately wanted a shower and some food, but didn't want to get up until my housemates left at 830. I finally got up, and showered away the pukiness, then lay on the sofa watching T4, feeling physically ok, but mentally lost. I'm not sure how Andy feels about me now; I think he's forgiven me but I still feel terrible.