Book Club Night is on the last Tuesday of every month. Of course, we haven't actually met since late last summer when sitting outside in our coats was allowed, so we meet via Zoom to discuss the all-important novel of choice. This month it was Hamnet by Maggie O'Farrell.
Since I have the Zoom app set up on my laptop, I 'host' the meeting from Conor's bedroom. Conor rudely moved out last summer, leaving me starved of his humour and company and, as my friend, Liz Gallagher astutely observed, the content for this blog. However, every cloud has a silver lining, and the upside to his departure is that I converted his bedroom into my 'office'. His window faces south-west so if there is any sun to be had it starts to pour in at around lunchtime and it gently swings across my view all afternoon until it starts its descent behind the house at the end of our garden. January was a great month, weatherwise. As the days inched slowly by, I noticed the sun dipping slightly later each evening and ever so excruciatingly an inch to the right of my neighbour's chimney. Once it clears the roof completely, then I know summer is on its way. One of the joys of living so far up the northern hemisphere is that every minute more of daylight is a cause for celebration, a sign of nicer days to come. I digress...
At the beginning of the evening, the 12 members are so happy to see each other, we raise a glass to each other's health and happiness. I had my can of Bulmers at the ready. However, in my excitement, I drained the can a little too quickly, and so I asked my son, Joe, to get me another from the kitchen. He came back up the stairs a minute later to tell there were none left.
"Will I make you a hot whiskey instead?" he said (he's 21).
"That would be divine," I said.
Some minutes later, he knocked on the door and handed me a mug which contained a steaming hot brown liquid with several cloves floating on top. He explained, "We've no lemons, and I couldn't find the sugar, so I used maple syrup."
"Does that explain the colour?" I said, and he assured me it did.
It was so strong and still piping hot, I sipped it carefully as I listened to the others discuss the book. The next hour flew by in a blur, I remember that the general consensus was that it was a great book, and we scored it five out of five. As we said our goodbyes I had a crushing headache and went straight to bed.
I slept through the alarm the next morning: I could not lift my head from the pillow and my arms felt like logs. When I finally awoke and scrabbled under the bed for my phone, it told me that it was 10 minutes past nine. "Shit, I'm late for work." I rolled out of bed. My head felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. I used the wardrobe to hoist myself into a standing position and walked slowly to my office. I craved a shower, but it was out of the question.
A few minutes later, Joe knocked perkily on my door and announced, "I'm just off to work."
"C'mere," I said, "What exactly was in that drink you gave me last night?" I said.
Pushing the door open wide, Joe grinned and said, "Whiskey, hot water, cloves, syrup..." and backing away quickly until he had one foot on top of the stairs said, "and a spoonful of poteen."
I don't know how I got through the rest of Wednesday.
What's the moral of the story? Don't accept alcohol volunteered by your children. Or maybe it's don't have children....
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