Philosophy of the treat
Last Wednesday and I decided for no good reason to go and get shitfaced. I have really cut down on the amount I drink and even at social events I don't automatically get trashed ASAP any more. But every once in a while there is a kind of homing instinct that grips me way down in me giblets and I'm drawn towards some Anglophonic establishment where I imbibe copiously and talk utter dross without the slightest feeling of remorse. It's a pressure gauge. It's a treat.
We're only talking once a month or so, for God's sake. I try to explain to my Spanish girlfriend (CS) that, although this might register as a worrying habit for your average European male, it doesn't even cause a blip on the screen for an Irishman. Fortunately I'm blessed with many a Celtic friend who could quite easily illustrate this fact for CS any time she likes.
This whimsy tends to strike on a Tuesday, a Wednesday or a Thursday, i.e. one of the drabber days of the week. It occurs to me that I am completely opposite to my mother when it comes to having a splurge. For Mum, a luxury is something one should save for a special occasion and so she keeps all her fine consumables hidden away in storage just in case some head of state pops in on a flying visit. She is an extravagance hoarder, Lord bless her.
I, on the other hand, truly believe in the expression, ‘Save it for a rainy day’. Special occasions are already special, they don’t need any extra props to make them stand out in your diary. A caprice is something that should be used to alleviate the suffocating greyness of a Tuesday in February, when your staring morosely out at the drizzle and asking yourself “Is this it? Is my whole life going to consist of days like this?”. That’s when you should crack open that 25-year old bottle of Glenhoddle single-malt scotch that your beloved Uncle Alfred gave you two years earlier while fading fast on his deathbed. Instead of bemoaning the insignificance of this particular 24-hour period, celebrate it. Open the windows wide, feel the winter droplets kissing your cheeks, take a deep breath of God’s own air and raise your glass high...........
“Here’s to you Alf!”
We're only talking once a month or so, for God's sake. I try to explain to my Spanish girlfriend (CS) that, although this might register as a worrying habit for your average European male, it doesn't even cause a blip on the screen for an Irishman. Fortunately I'm blessed with many a Celtic friend who could quite easily illustrate this fact for CS any time she likes.
This whimsy tends to strike on a Tuesday, a Wednesday or a Thursday, i.e. one of the drabber days of the week. It occurs to me that I am completely opposite to my mother when it comes to having a splurge. For Mum, a luxury is something one should save for a special occasion and so she keeps all her fine consumables hidden away in storage just in case some head of state pops in on a flying visit. She is an extravagance hoarder, Lord bless her.
I, on the other hand, truly believe in the expression, ‘Save it for a rainy day’. Special occasions are already special, they don’t need any extra props to make them stand out in your diary. A caprice is something that should be used to alleviate the suffocating greyness of a Tuesday in February, when your staring morosely out at the drizzle and asking yourself “Is this it? Is my whole life going to consist of days like this?”. That’s when you should crack open that 25-year old bottle of Glenhoddle single-malt scotch that your beloved Uncle Alfred gave you two years earlier while fading fast on his deathbed. Instead of bemoaning the insignificance of this particular 24-hour period, celebrate it. Open the windows wide, feel the winter droplets kissing your cheeks, take a deep breath of God’s own air and raise your glass high...........
“Here’s to you Alf!”
posted by Lung the Younger | 10:15 am
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