Froggy's World - Alms for Oblivion (Weblog)

Apologetic hangovers on the morning after
14th December, 2006

'Tis the season to be merry and to exchange your firstborn for a taxi.
It had been a late night. Not one of those in which the sun threatens to clear the horizon before you can get home and close all the curtains, but late enough for the awakening experience to be a less than joyous one.
At least we hadn't been stranded in the city, for I harbour an abiding fear of being unable to get a cab. I experienced this two years ago when I went to the racetrack on Melbourne Cup day and suffered the ignominy of watching the city's elite sliding into their limos while I dodged fists and projectile vomit on the cab rank.
So this year I rang every hire car company in Brisbane and was told they were booked solid.
   "I'm getting married," said a colleague, who had overheard my pleas on the phone and who has the misfortune to have a desk adjoining mine.
   "That's nice. But maybe you should talk to someone else about it," I said.
   "I don't want advice. It's just that my dad has a friend who hires cars for weddings," she said.
Suddenly, I took her point. Brilliant! The woman was a genius, albeit one who was getting married.
   "How will we get home from the races?" asked my wife.
   "No worries," I said. "I've fixed it."
   "Oh," she said, managing to contain the fountain of enthusiasm that must have bubbled within her.
   "Where's the limo?" she said on the day.
   "There," I said, indicating the roadway outside our apartment block.
   "It's a wedding car!" she cried.
   "Stop whining," I said. "I told them to go easy on the white ribbons and the bridal doll on the bonnet."
And so it was that we had a day at the races and at 4:45pm left the course. On the street outside there were the usual scenes from Dante's Inferno, hundreds of people swaying, staggering and headbutting each other as they waited for cabs that never came. In the midst of this rabble stood a large white Jaguar complete with capped chauffeur. I managed a wave to the unwashed as we sped off.
But back to the morning after the late night. I blinked again and felt a slight pain in my head. It wasn't a hangover but my wife's voice jackhammering away on my eardrum.
   "You were terrible last night. You almost spear-tackled that poor woman."
   "What woman?" I asked warily. She mentioned the name of a friend of ours and I winced.
   "You'll have to ring and apologise," she insisted.
   "But it was my cab. I was next," I pleaded, outraged at this slur on my chivalry.
Familiar with the sisterhood system that prevails in such matters, I knew that if I did not ring and apologise, a war of emotional attrition would ensue until I surrendered unconditionally. If I did not succumb, I would be ground into dust.
I procrastinated all morning, surprised at the number of things I found that required my immediate attention and did not involve making an apology. Finally I dialled the number.
   "I'm sorry about last night," I said. "I'm told I crash-tackled you when you tried to get into a cab."
   "That's strange," she said. "I woke up this morning with the most dreadful hangover and my husband started on at me about the cab business. He said I'd behaved disgracefully and had almost knocked over that poor Marc Willems into the gutter when I tried to steal his cab. I'm terribly sorry. I'd had a few too many."
   "So I didn't tackle you?" I asked.
   "Apparently not - my recollection of events is less than perfect but it seems I tackled you."
   "I'll accept your apology if you'll accept mine," I said, "although it's obvious to me that our respective spouses had both had a few and are unreliable witnesses."
"It's a deal," she said.
I am presently investigating the fiscal viability of having a wedding car on call whenever we step forth after dark - at least until 24th December.

» geocities.com/psychofrog