First Time Drunk

My 17 year old daughter got pissed tonight. This happened before she even got to the party she was supposed to be going to. By 9 o'clock she was back home, balancing on a chair whilst nursing a bucket and repeatedly asking for water "so that I don't get a hang over". Some hope, sweetheart!

But we've all been there.

I'd been merry a good few times but the first time I ever got really slaughtered was on the last day of school. I hadn't actually attended much during the last two years but even so, the last day we were officially free and that meant we could miss school legally. Yippee! If only we'd known! Schooldays are the best days, blah blah.

Yeah, yeah. Less of the lecture. They weren't really. Not for me, anyway. Kids school was good and grammar school wasn't bad, but when Plaistow Grammar became Cumberland Comprehensive... stuff it!

The last day of school was spent in a local park. The Greengate Park in Plaistow, to be precise. Me, Carol (my best friend and fellow bunker-offer), and a few others, although I couldn't tell you who. A group of us would often spend an afternoon in the park, usually sitting in the shelter near the loos, smoking and generally minding out own businesses. Because we didn't cause trouble the park-keeper pretty much left us to our own devices. He'd even warn us if the school board woman was doing the rounds. Wo betide anybody who fell prey to the school board woman, or the "Green Woman" as she was unaffectionately known.

On this particular day we'd all brought a bottle of booze along to the park. Although I couldn't swear to it, I'd probably put a fiver on mine being a bottle of Cinzano. It was my favoured drink at the time, mostly because it was cheap and brought on the desired affect of 'merrydom' reasonably quickly. There was no lemonade though, and definitely no ice and slice.

The bottles were shared so not only was alcohol swallowed down in copious amounts but several types were mixed. Needless to say, it wasn't long before several of us--one being me--were plastered.

From there on the memories become somewhat vague and disjointed. Me dancing on a table in a greasy spoon somewhere in Plaistow. Around the Balham Street area, I believe, although I wouldn't stand up in court and swear to it. Whilst entertaining the other diners I somehow managed to rip the seam of my trousers. It wasn't just a little rip, either. Oh no, this one went from my crotch and right up to the waistband, exposing my rather voluminous backside. Thank God I was wearing knickers! I had been known to forget them, you see.

I was also sick. Violently so. The clever sod who'd decided we should go to a cheap cafe and eat in order to sober up had been right, although I'm not sure vomitting was the plan. After chucking up a portion of fried egg and chips, I felt much better. I still had a problem, though. In order to get into the house "after school" without being caught, I took my t-shirt off (beige with a brown striped collar - I remember it clearly) and turned it around. It must have looked very odd with the back of the collar at the front but what the hell - although I was no longer totally rat-arsed, I was still drunk and drunks care little for such details.

Sod's law and all that, I arrived home to find my father comfortably seated in the armchair facing the stairs. How would I get up to my room without him noticing my condition? My father was--and still is--a stickler for the "old ways". Children should be seen and not heard and all that malarkey. And as far as being drunk in the middle of the day goes, that's his area of expertise and should be left alone by other family members.

I remember almost sliding along the wall, trying to look normal, although what's normal about imitating a jelly fish has yet to become apparent. "Hello Dad. Got a terrible headache so am going up to get some rest." Wonder of wonders, he got up and went into the kitchen to find me an aspirin. I ran up the stairs as fast as my size tens would carry me, stripped off, pulled my pyjamas on and zonked out on the bed.

I think it was a Thursday.

~~+~~

This Is My Life

My name's Sharon and this is my life.

No red book, no Eamonn Andrews (showing my age there, chaps) and no fifth cousins once removed showing up to tell stupid stories about somebody trying to make wigs out of pubic hair. Or similar.

It'll be written in no particular order - just a group of memoirs jotted down as and when I think of them. Some amusing, some sad, some thought provoking and some - well, you'll probably think I'm damn right stupid.

I don't expect the world and his bunny to be interested. This is for me, my family and those who know me. If you don't know me but want to read anyway, please feel free.

~Sharon J