The Friday Ritual

It’s Friday, and I am conveniently recovered from my brush with death yesterday. There is a burning desire to see the end of my watch, so I can run down town and knock back a couple of drinks at my favourite watering hole.

The purpose of this almost ritualistic behaviour is twofold; on the one hand it serves as opportunity to depressurise from the rigors of a busy week, on the other hand it gives me a reason to do some networking and on a personal note meet new people.

But Alas, I am set to fail. All week I have been thinking of Friday, I have taken extra care with my appearance, I ironed all my clothes and I have a “game plan”.

On arrival, the bar is normally full, noisy and full of smoke; I wait in line to be served, this usually takes ages. I order two drinks with a view of not having to queue up for a while, while I knock back my first drink waiting for my change I look around for anyone I may know. I get my change back I have already started on my second drink.

Having only had a small chicken wrap at lunch, the alcohol has free reign to do what it was designed for, and I can already feel my mind getting cloudy. I am now somehow tethered to the bar, unable to break away.

Not having spoken to anyone, I continue to order drinks for myself, slowly but surely getting to the tipping point. Where the numbness that the cool gin and tonic is providing is a far better proposition to the cold, lonely shadows that lurk around every corner.

I will awake on Saturday morning, with the feeling that some small mammal has done it’s ablutions in my mouth and with a hangover I will have to nurse for the rest of the weekend. With little or no recollection of what transpired the night before, other than that I may or may have not eaten a kebab, as there is a half eaten one in my pocket.

And because of this lack of memory, next Friday I will do it all over again.

Ed.