The World According To Me

Friday night was big. I'd had some shitcrack leave on Friday which saw me attending the chiropractor, napping, and not a whole lot else. So come Friday afternoon when my boss had some great news about a case that has been doing both of our heads in, he texted me and said I should come to the pub for a slight celebration. Which turned out to be a 5pm-3am celebration, with a mountain of KFC at the end of it. Why does 'dirty bird' appeal so much when one is liquored up? I will never know. I fell out of the taxi and into bed, only to wake up a cruelly few hours later with an excruciating hangover and no-one to blame but myself.

Yesterday was a complete waste, a horribly foggy mix of more dirty bird, neurophen, futile attempts at sleeping, more junk food and a pathetic attempt and trying to drink water to flush my system out. Sort of like pouring a cup of bleach into a sewerage pond. Lucy had a bloody 10am vets appointment to finally get her stitches out. I was still clearly pissed. I made Pom drive us to the clinic, as I was quite unable to do so. When we got into the reception area I made no eye contact with anyone, lest my blurry eyes belay my carefully strategised walking in a straight line. When Lucy hopped up onto the scales with minimal prompting and sat down to be weighed, I gave my own game away by shrieking loudly "OH! You're such a good girl! Look at you, hopping up on the scales straight away like that! You're suuuuccchhh a gooooood giiiiirrrrrl". The receptionists looked at me like I was a basket case and I quickly went and sat down without saying another word. I tried not to breathe in the direction of the vet in case she reported me to the animal equivalent of the DHS for bad parenting, luckily it was all over quite quickly and I was returned to the safety of my own bed shortly thereafter.

I nearly went into cardiac arrest when my boys narrowly proved their mettle to get into the grand-final and quite soon after that I had collapsed into a fitful sleep. Which is why I'm up so early this morning.

As a result of my champagne binge and subsequent terrible eating, I feel like a complete mess at the moment. My head is still foggy, my belly distended even more than usual. My hair feels greasy and my teeth feel like chalk. More irritatingly, my skin itches like I haven't showered in months. It's really not a nice time.

And I will probably do it all again next weekend.

x

Last night I had to stay back at work until 6.30pm to do some work for a solicitor who I'm not overly fond of in any usual circumstance but when he is keeping me in the office on a bloody Friday night I dislike him even more. To recompense the time I was losing and not meeting Pom at the pub at the time we had agreed, I cracked open a bottle of champagne from the staff fridge, doled a couple of glasses out to 2 other broads still working (but driving home) and then finished the bottle myself. By the time I finished the work that was so unbelievably urgent it simply could not wait until Monday morning, I was hammered.

So I walked to the pub, plonked myself down on a barstool next to Pom, and drank some more. At a very responsible hour we exited and made our way home on foot. I was wearing the heels that I had been walking around in all day, and due to the numbing effect of champagne (bless) couldn't feel/didn't particularly care that they were hurting. We detoured to get a pizza for dinner, because quite frankly I was too maggotted to even think about cooking. More walking. More soreness.

This morning I wake up and my feet are a mess! They hurt like nothing else, and I am wearing fluffy and revolting secret slippers to cushion each footstep. This is not the arthritis mind, it's soreness of a completely different nature and which most chickys will be familiar with. The pain that comes from lots of walking on stupid shoes.

Now here's my problem - I have another function tonight which will require me to do a considerable amount of standing and probably dancing. In shoes which are less comfortable than the ones I wore to work yesterday. And yes, I must wear the less comfortable shoes because they go perfectly with this gorgeous little dress I have bought and if I have to rethink my entire outfit because of a shoe change I will quite possibly go mental.

I need some sort of emergency foot-rescue, stat.

If anyone knows a beautician who can do an exellent pedi, feel free to send them round before 6 tonight.

I'll be waiting on the couch.

Cheerio!

The Pom and I live in a pretty family-friendly street. There's a little boy of about 12 who lives next door to us with his family and he loves to kick the footy around in the street after school. Sometimes he has a mate to kick with, but mostly he just kicks it around to himself. The best part is that he gives himself a running commentary as he does it, like he's playing in a one-man grandfinal. I find this hilarious. He's a friendly enough kid, very polite when he kicks the ball over our fence into our yard and we go and retrieve it for him. Neither of us mind, it's better than some alternatives of picking up beer bottles or neighbours poisoning our pets (I have very little faith in people, I know).

Last night I was sitting in our backyard having another post-work cigarette, enjoying the mild weather, watching the sun go down. I realised Aggie wasn't about, and after an extended period of calling and Friskies-box shaking without her showing her furry little face, I headed out the front of the house in order to find her.

'Puss puss'

*shake shake shake* (This is usually a sure-fire winner)

"Puuuuuuuuss puuuuuuuuss puuuuuuuuss"

*shake shake shake shake*

"PUUUUUUUSS PUUUUUUUUSS PUUUUUUUUUUSS"

Suddenly I hear a faint 'meowwww' and the 20m high conifer shakes behind me. At about the 15m mark. A little tortoiseshell face poked out the side.

"Shit. POMMMMMMM, Aggie's up the bloody tree. The big one. Can you please come and help?"

Pom comes out and has a look up the tree. The little face has disappeared back within its confines but there's a conspicuous shaking as she tries to make her way down.

It's getting dark. Pom takes charge. "Right, can you go and get the torch? And my car keys". I oblige and return with both. "What do you want with the car keys?" I ask. "I want to move my car in off the street" he says.

Right.

We focus the torch up the tree in the dying light. The fluffy little face reappears at about the 12m mark, then disappears and some more tree shaking ensues. And some more distressed meowing.

"Should we get the ladder?"

I say "She got herself up there, she's got to be able to get back down". The tough love approach isn't something I'm truly feeling, but I try it anyway.

We stand around the bottom of the great big conifer, peering up and not being able to see very much at all. I continue to call to her, and we can see she's making her way down, slowly.

The little kid from next door comes into the front yard "G'day" he says earnestly, "Sorry, but I've just kicked my footy into your backyard, can I get it?"

"Sure" I say, "Just a sec". I'm still looking upward, trying to catch a glimpse of a white paw, or a little pink nose so I can track the progress downward.

He joins us under the tree and looks up. "What's happening?"

"My kitten is stuck up the tree" I inform him.

"Shit" he says, "How did she get up there?"

"I assume she climbed" I answer dryly. I don't want to be rude to the kid but I can hear Aggie's meows grow more and more urgent and I'd like her to get down pretty soon, if possible.

Undeterred, he presses on "One time, when we lived in another house, our cat got stuck up a tree too. It was really, really high. Like this one"

"And you got her down?" I ask, looking at him for the first time.

"Yeah, but it took ages. She was really really stuck"

Pause.

"Hmmmm, I'm sure this little one will be fine"

The tree shakes again, a little face pops out the side. About 8m from the ground. Nearly there.

"Yeah, we named it Holly, after mistletoe, you know, at Christmas?"

I'm not sure I do know. I mean, I know what holly is, and I know what both mistletoe and Christmas are, but I'm not sure I can figure out the relationship between the three and come up with a cat's name. I appease him by nodding, which appears to encourage him. "Yeah, well actually mum came up with the name, I didn't know she was that clever, it surprised me". He laughs at his own joke. "What's your kitten's name?"

"Agnes", I tell him.

"Agnes, hey" he stops to think. "That's a good name for a cat".

"Thanks"

Suddenly the subject in question makes a rapid progress to within reaching distance. With the supervision of the neighbours kid Pom reaches up and plucks her from the tree and places her in my hands. Her little heart is beating quickly and her eyes are wide and wild. She's had an ADVENTURE.

Pom says "I'll just go and get your footy, mate" and heads inside to get to the backyard.

The kid starts to scratch Aggie behind the ear. "She's cute".

"Yeah she is…I'm Kymmy….I don't think I know your name?"

"I'm Matt" he says "But my mates at school call me Chopper"

"Chopper? Why's that?"

"Well cos when Chopper got stabbed once, my mum looked after him in hospital"

"Really? That's cool"

"Yeah". We're mates now. Pom returns with the ball and I repeat the Chopper story to him. Pom's impressed. He has a fascination with Chopper. The real one, that is.

Matt's chest puffs up, he handballs his footy in the air and catches it repeatedly.

"Well" he says, "better go. Seeya", he runs across the front lawn, still handballing to himself, and back to his house. "Seeya", we chorus.

I head out the back for another cigarette. It's dark now. The acrid smoke is relaxing as I inhale. I hear a thump next-door, a football against the fence.

"And chopper kicks a beauty….he collects it from ground-level, handballs it to himself, and CHOPPER KICKS THE GOALLLLLLLL OF THE CENTURY"

I smile to myself.