Sunday, 5 November 1995 12:58PM
Yesterday was torture. Sooo hungover, I was ill all day. I didn’t get enough sleep, and my stomach just never recovered from all the poison it had to contain on Friday night. I’d had such a crap week, it was either go straight home or go on a bender. I went to “Klicks” with the pious intention of walking the narrow division between the two depressing prospects, but slipped down the greasy pole of temptation into the quagmire of drunkenness. My main cohort was Erin, Keely used to have her job, and it seems as if a mighty tolerance for alcohol is one of the perks of that job. Keely could drink anyone under the table and so can Erin, which is strange because Erin is so thin, she has a really petite build. I’ve christened her Iron Guts. I don’t know how she feels about that. We (Erin, Kylie and her boyfriend Bob) ended up at “The Lounge” in Swanston Street around 10:30, but then it got too loud around 11, so we left and split up at the top of Bourke Street Mall to catch a tram, Erin looked into the sky with a grin and a squint and said “But you know, I think I still feel like another drink”, so we weighed up the different venues, and ended up going to the Public Bar just opposite the Victoria Markets.
It was crowded and kinda grungy, but it was OK. I was drinking Vodka lime and sodas, Erin was drinking Vodka lime and lemonades. We got a corner booth seat and prattled on over the band in the other room with its haggard, junkie singer and stayed ’til around 3am. We shared a taxi to my place, then she was off to Kensington to meet her ex-boyfriend. I got home and fell asleep on the couch, woke up about 5am and went to bed with a stiff neck and couldn’t get back to sleep, but lay in drowsy stupor, still fully clothed, to my shame. I woke with a violent start at 6am when my alarm wet off (forgot to turn the damn thing off Friday morning) and then woke up violently again 9 minutes later when I realised I hadn’t turned it off again, just hit the snooze button. So rolled around in bed in moaning self-pity until 10am. I woozily pulled myself upright and gingerly padded to the shower. God I felt crap. I ummed and ahhed about what to wear and went with the combat pants, Stüssy long-sleeved t-shirt, 2nd hand blue polyester shirt and blue suede Vans trainers. I felt sharp man.
I got into work and tried to look vital while Mary from accounts went over what orders were there to be done. I sat down and hung my head and tried to get on with the easier part of it, hoping that by the time physical work was required I would have sufficiently recovered to be able to rise to the occasion. At noon I went to Collins Place with Habib and timidly nibbled two potato cakes, the sacred food of hungover peoples everywhere, washing it down with a large Coke, the only time I ever allow my self to drink that stuff. (Coin collectors use it to clean decades of grime off their coveted goodies you know). I got some hay-fever pills from the chemist and trudged through the day, staggering from one fatty snack to the other until petering out around 6pm. I went home and listened to my new Aphex Twin CD (it’s ace) and ate an apple, retiring to bed at 9:30.
So now it’s Sunday, I’m in here again for work I probably won’t get paid for, with an armful of bags from a consumerist spree at Myer and House, trying to make something more of the day than just another 10 hours down the salt mines. I must take you to “House” when you get here, they have lovely stuff. All their shops are just bursting with stock, it’s great. It’s not like Myer where you have to wander for bloody miles to find anything, “House” has stuff hanging from the ceiling. Lots of stainless steel things too. I love shiny kitchenware, I’m like some over-cashed magpie looking to add another glossy treasure to my Fleming nest when I get in that shop.