I am in the doghouse. For the third year in succession I have forgotten our wedding anniversary for which I have to serve my due sentence.
I have 18 bottles of whisky in the cellar and my wife has ordered me to pour the contents of the lot down the sink. With a heavy heart and heavier tread I descend the narrow stairs to the cellar. I remove the cork from the first bottle, drinking a glass and pouring the rest down the sink. I repeat the process with the second bottle, taking a glass before pouring the remaining contents down the drain. Taking the third bottle I drank the cork and bottled a glass before moving on to the fourth, an old friend, Jack Daniels.
Good guy, Jack. Spent many a happy evening with him — but, he had to go and I waved “Bood Gye” to his last drop.
By this time I needed a rest and sat back into the chair — which wasn’t there — and so landed on the stone floor. This seemed to knock some sense back into me, especially the painful ones so, after collecting a few of my wits scattered across the room I crawled towards the wall.
By means of steely determination, will power and the aid of a loose shelf on the wall I managed to regain an upright posture just as the collection of old paint cans on the shelf fell to the floor with a satisfying “crash” where they split open releasing their contents over the cellar floor creating an artwork worthy of some prestigious art prize or other.
Now that I was vertical, I supported the house with one hand while counting the bottles, glasses, corks and pours as they came round when they were seventy three. Now I know what you are thinking but I can assure you that, in spite of the fact that the drunker I stand here the longer I get, I am not half as thunk as some drinkle thinkle peep I am … Hic.
Oops, I think I need to lie down — but I am determined to remember next year that our anniversary falls on July the thirty fourth. Good ni….