Bad Decisions

Sometimes I make bad decisions. Sometimes I suffer the consequences of those decisions for several days afterwards. And sometimes those decisions are compounded with enough coincidental bad luck to bring everything crashing down around my ears.

On Friday, I went out to Solihull for a friend’s birthday. I’m living close to the breadline at the moment, so going out isn’t a sensible thing for me to do right now, but I don’t see this particular friend very often. This was the logic behind my trip out to Solihull and this was the logic behind my caving in to the badgering that I follow the party on to Snobs. I drank far too much of the cheap house whiskey and grabbed a taxi home, emptying my bedroom bin for the inevitable hangover the next morning and falling gratefully into bed. There was somebody due in the early afternoon to do the annual gas safety check, but I reckoned I’d get enough sleep to be functioning when he came.

At half past ten on Saturday morning, things started to go badly wrong. I was woken up by the door bell and found my landlord on the door step. He had come with some men to sort out the tree in the middle of my lawn, the one that’s been in desperate need of a trim for more than two years. Too badly hung over to even consider the implications, I went back to bed. All I wanted was sleep, but that comfort was denied to me by the worst round of hung-over vomiting I’ve ever indulged in. My whole torso was convulsing in an attempt to squeeze bile out of my overworked gall bladder. Normally, I slumber and doze through hangovers but I was forced to suffer every agonising minute of this one fully conscious.

The gas man came, and I had to get up again to let him in. As I saw him out of the door, one of the landlord’s men accosted me and said that they’d dealt with the tree and were moving on to the rest of the garden. I said it wasn’t necessary. He said they would cut things back and I could take it from there. If it was sunny next weekend, they would be back to finish off. I gave up and went back to bed.

It was nine in the evening by the time I was strong enough to even keep water down. I had rehydrated myself over the course of the afternoon by rinsing my mouth without swallowing. I eventually ate then slept the night, and on Sunday morning I dragged myself into the garden to survey the work. The scene of devastation that greeted me made my heart sink. The landlord’s men had cut indiscriminately into the garden and left the lawn strewn with debris. It took me most of Sunday afternoon to clear up after them. And now it’s going to take all my effort to keep them from carrying out their threat to come back…


~ by Scary Rob on 21 September, 2009.

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