whisky and the monument

bah, last night turned messy. Not for me, thankfully enough, but even I had more to drink than I wanted to.
peter, bless him, was adamant that we party, as it was my first weekend back etc etc...

not being one to mix spirits anymore (oooh aren't I all fucking grown up) I had scotch on the rocks while we were still at home, talking about things and women etc. He's a hard nut to crack, my husband. Then Betty came home and we got a taxi (because of Remy's leg, not laziness) into Freo, and went upstairs to Kulcha for a drink and the view. Of course the others were bitching because they couldn't smoke, but thankfully that's at least one vice I've managed to quite easily kick.

And then we went to the motherfucking newport hotel. can there be anywhere more obvious for memories? but there were no lurking long haired aussies, and I was glad to take my leave of the place. Naturally we went for kebabs and chips with garlic sauce, so my careful healthy eating went out the window.

Afterwards, Remy bought Betty and I flowers, and then I left them, and walked, shoes in hand to the monument, slowly, relishing every gravelly step, loving the balmy air, and somehow (of course!) wishing I wasn't alone. Poor Balint, I think he got anna overload yesterday. Of the ooh I love you miss you rah rah rah variety. But the good thing is I don't feel so sheepish today. I feel a bit annoyed that I got so wankered, but I'm going to go for a run and get the nasties out of my system. What I would give for lemonade from a jar, and a B1 vitamin in his little kitchen.

The monument was gorgeous as ever, my mood soared even further when I saw the twinkling of my red cranes in the dark.
This morning I can feel the result of my barefoot foray, the bottom of feet look like the road they walked on...but I'm glad...

good morning...