2004-09-25 - 2:13 p.m.

a good time was had by all

One of the all too many reasons that I have trouble feeling affinity with many of my fellow human beings is that I don't take much enjoyment from getting drunk. Not that I can say that I have ever been truly drunk, the most I have had is probably six or seven drinks. I react to alcohol in a much different way to most, see, after one drink, I am more talkative, after two, I don't think twice about swearing, yelling or putting my arm around someone just to be friendly (you might say that I have a standard drink offset factor of -2 relative to the general population), but after four or five I am affected by an overwhelming sense of sadness and impending doom and am mildly numb in the arms and legs. This paralysis partly explains why I have not gotten any more drunk than that.

Which may explain why I fear being seen as judgemental over last night. Last night? O yes, that. Five people of whom I was the remainder when this number was divided by two. Nice food. Plenty of alcohol. The occasion: my mum's birthday. I had a total of four standard drinks for the night, spread well thin by the hours and by my 81 kilograms. No one is bothered much about that. I am avoiding the point again.

The highlight of the night was my mum getting drunk beyond anything I had seen before. She started drinking well before our guests arrived. At the dinner table she reminded them how emotionally unstable I am and of her contempt for our upcoming meeting with the counsellor. I always knew that she wished I had not been born but to witness her demonstrate so in this way was unpleasant. I will giver her the benefit of the doubt, after all it was the drink speaking?

The night went on, she drunk more, only the vigilance of my brother prevented some potentially disastrous red wine stains. The tablecloth and wineglasses though proved to be easier to keep in suitable positions than my mum herself who collapsed on the kitchen floor, incoherent and providing much comedy for the easily amused. Some tricks were played and photos taken.

When she gave her first vomit the tone changed. No more jokes, now, instantly, everyone became concerned for her well being. A certain person expressed this concern by going into a bedroom, turning on the TV and becoming amused with the program. This left my brother and me to take care of our mother. Being in her seventh decade I don't mind taking care of her although I hadn't expected being initiated in this way. Anyway. She continues to spew over her pants, jumper, socks, so we get her a bucket, a drink, a coffee, undress her and put on her pyjamas, give her her tablets, carry her into bed, put her spew-soaked clothes on to soak, mop up the floor and clean up the kitchen. No doubt similar scenes eventuate every night all over the world, as people "know how to have a good time, but be serious when necessary", and obviously I am the only one that fails to see this logic.

Where did the fun go? Suddenly people feel that it is time to be sensible and go to bed. But it's only 11 pm? What's going on? It's Friday night. Surely we should stay up? No need to go to bed now? O well. Good night.

As I got into bed I realised that I never did find an appropriate time to present my mum with her birthday present: two bottles of wine.

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