On Saturday morning I woke early. I was in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar bedroom, fully clothed, with my shoes on. Curled up beside me was a woman I didn’t recognise. I lifted the covers and peeked underneath to see if she had anything on. She was wearing a blue dress. Tilting my head gave me an excruciating pain just behind my eyeballs.
I’d fallen off the wagon again. Why am I so powerless against alcohol? I’d left the house the night before brimming with health and optimism. Now I felt as if I was actually dying. What had caused the capitulation? I tried to piece things together. Party. One drink had led to another and I’d been to a party. Had I danced? I’d danced. I’d tripped the light fantastic. And had there been any drugs? There had. Snowdrifts of the stuff. It had been like a winter Olympics in the Rif Mountains.
The woman beside me stirred then sat up. ‘Hallo!’ she said. I was grateful for that. I thought a single glance at me and she’d become the actress in the silent movie who first claps eyes on the creature from the black lagoon. A stranger in the bed, however, seemed not to surprise her. Far from recoiling, she was glad to see someone.
But there was no time to deepen our acquaintance. ‘Is that the time?’ she said, springing out of bed. ‘I’d better get a wiggle on,’ she said, pulling open drawers. ‘I’m goin’ ’untin’.’ From my vantage point just inside death’s door, I could only marvel at this broad-minded, self-parodying woman — whoever she was. There was I, lying there like a dying duck; and there was she, fresh as a daisy, off hunting!
Then I remembered that I, too, had an unmissable appointment.
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