Grapes of Wrath

Delicate. That's how I feel this morning. An evening quaffing an entire bottle of Rioja punctuated with nibbles at my age is obviously no longer a good idea and my tube ride home is aborted at Bond Street due to unnecessary queasiness brought on by Tfl's less than smooth conveyance underground. My red wine marinated brain sketchily envisages a graph that simultaneously attempts to plot, distance, speed, trajectory, tingling blue toe and potential weaving en route, and directs my arm to flag down a bus instead. Motion is clearly not a sensible course of action and I reflect on the last time my equilibrium was so severely challenged by a bunch of grapes. Not since Usha's wedding in 2001, and that was more of a pentathlon concluding in one glass of smushed grapes too many. Nine years and progressive drop in consumption has me firmly classed as a lightweight.

I negotiate the single flight of stairs with impunity and miraculously, the keys just slot into their holes with practiced ease, my bravura stumbling as one shoelaces decides to knot itself, nearly causing me to keel over in an ungainly attempt to divest myself of these accouterments. Inexplicably, my journey within the confines of the flat is met with unexpected attempts at bodily harm as I bounce off walls and doors. Hmmmm, it would appear that fruit is wreaking havoc with my spatial awareness. Or perhaps it is simply an inner ear problem. In any event, I do believe the pitzy line has been firmly crossed, and I'm well into tunned (with a double n) territory. I retire to the shower to mull this over, feeling rather pleased at successfully negotiating the fluctuating temperatures to an acceptably soothing waterfall, the ideal acoustic foil to my full throated rendition of pop, polli geeti and opera.

Sadly, my metabolism hasn’t kept up with my diminishing capacity, and consciousness makes a pre-dawn strike, and a horribly familiar, if solitary bokum bokum invades my slowly returning sentience. Fucking pigeon! Refusal to check the hour does little to assist my determined attempts at looking less bleary eyed, and a violent turn to the other side proves to be a deeply faulty strategy as I feel the bed sway precariously, pinging flashes to the back of my tightly squeezed lids. Hallelujah. We have a hangover! Eventually, Bach’s second rendition of Fugue in D Minor invokes a cautious vertical attempt, but my equilibrium and spatial awareness are still not operating at optimal levels and I graze my way into the kitchen for a drink. Limited lucidity allows departure, but the fresh air does little to allay the dull throb in my head or the unease in my stomach. Poetic justice prevails as I muster enough intelligence for my first 2 hour long meeting of the day, surreptitiously thinking of alternate strategies to to try and feel less fragile as the day looms ahead portending the next 4 pm client meeting.

Apparently, these were the grapes of wrath.