Don’t judge me!
I did the floor dance last night.
The floor dance, I hear you ask?
Yes. I’m sure most of you have done this at some point when you’ve had too much to drink and you crave the comfort of a hard, cold, possibly dirty floor to rest your heavy head for a minute or two from the gyrations of a spinning room.
Well, going back in time (cue the going back in time harp music) I popped into my garage yesterday afternoon where I saw the door of my wine cellar (an old wooden cupboard full of vintage and I guess, now off drinks) was open.
So naturally being curious, I went to close it and was accosted by a bright, shiny milky white bottle of Malibu trying to catch my attention by saying, ‘Drink me, drink me’.
Not wanting to disappoint an old favourite of mine who has been waiting patiently in the dark for many years to be picked up, I brought it back into my house, carefully wiped off the dust from the bottle and gently filled a shot glass of the clear liquid.
It looked the same as I remembered it from the 80’s. It smelt the same as I remembered it from the 80’s. And it tasted the same as I remembered it from the 80’s.
The taste of it brought back many happy memories when I was a young teenager where my childhood friend Lisa and I would take our dogs for a walk on a Sunday afternoon, climb over the local school fence and sit on some old rotting tree logs in the playground with our mini bottles of Malibu and lemonade.
I thought to myself that one shot glass would be ok? I mean it would have been deemed rude not to? Surely that wasn’t going to hurt, was it? Silly question. Enjoying the hot, exotic taste calypsoing over my tongue and down my throat, I then poured out another glass, and then another and then another.
Not feeling any different, I got dressed and went out for my two hour ‘jog’ around my local nature reserve, where I explored the cut grass pathways that feed their way through the old overgrown golf course and came home covered in bites as big as golf balls as I had forgotten to splash myself all over with mozzie cream. Poxy flying mini, blood sucking vampires.
I then settled down for the evening in front of the telly with a packet of crisps and another shot glass full of Malibu. Oh how the other half live. By the end of the night, the shot glass had magically turned into a tumbler and the coconut and rum infused liquor apparently had to full half of the tumbler or otherwise the tumbler wouldn’t be doing its job properly, would it?
About 1am I managed to climb the stairs, got undressed and even though I was drunk, I took my contact lenses out over my bed in case one of them would pop out and I would have to find it. And guess what happened? My good eye contact lens pinged and vanished in my room. I took the other lens out, put my glasses on and with torch in hand and my bits flapping all over the place, I crawled across the shag pile (yes I do that that on my floor) in search of the tiny clear disc.
By now the room had started to spin so I laid on the red fluffy carpet to see if that would stop it. An hour later, the room had calmed down. Just. Having managed to haul myself back on to my knees, and with another search under my dad bod belt, I finally found my contact lens though not where I thought it was but on the other side of the room near my desk.
Happy that the pair were reunited and both were safely put back into their overnight case to soak, I finally crawled into my bed and went to sleep.
The moral of this story, don’t be tempted by an old friend disguised as a shiny bottle of drinkiepoos as this could lead you down a boozy path of disaster!!! And if you do intend to have a nightcap or three, take your contact lenses out first.