Lost Weekend

My god, since I returned from rain-soaked Salcombe, I haven’t stopped running. It’s been a crazy mad weekend of indulgence. On Friday evening I met up with my dear American friend (she’s from Wisconsin, don’t you know?) and we ended up getting locked in at Nottingham’s coolest bar, and I didn’t get home until 4:00 a.m. Then Saturday was spent racing around between homes because my two daughters have both been visiting for the weekend, and both my parents have been in hospital (separately).

Saturday evening was passed in the Alley Café where we experienced an ever expanding international group – firstly there were my daughters (one French, one Swiss) plus four Hungarians, one American (you know who you are!), one Italian (Marco, we love you), two random French hippies, an Icelander and a delightful South African girl. What a night! We ended up in Bar Eleven where there was no way I was going to dance.

I thought that Sunday should bring some peace and quiet to my dissolute life but no, after several daytime and evening drinks in and around the Broadway, we all went on to @D2 where we enjoyed the spectacle of the maddest drag act I’ve ever seen. By this point we had been reduced to one daughter (the Swiss one had flown out earlier), one American, one Italian, one South African, one Dane, and me. I felt like the Foreign Secretary (who is that, btw? Is it that cheeky young Milliband fellah?) and I couldn’t work out whether my head was thumping from falling into a towel rail earlier (it is true reader, I did) or due to the ridiculous amount of alcohol that I’d consumed.

Today is Monday. Time for some reconnaissance in respect of this excess, I think. The bank account is now drained, the assets are all sold (except for my car) and Big Issue selling looms as the only possible source of income. Time to release my play about the Great Tullamore Balloon Disaster of 1785 perhaps. They say that a weekend wasted is never a wasted weekend, and it was certainly true of this one.