Drunk texting

Receiving a not at all incriminating drunk text the other night got me thinking about drunk texting in general, and the recent drought of drunk texting in my life in particular.

We used to relish drunk texting and drunk phone calls - we somehow managed it on alternate weekends ... you sober, me at the Newport... or me sober and you out somewhere in the wild Melbourne night.
So what changed? Have we stopped drinking? Or were those messages in some way laced with longing that has dissipated, or that we now must, forever, deny?
(And again, in my mind - "You can't repeat the past, old sport")

The CD that arrived recently, with all those old photos - the first summer and ... why subject myself to memories that surge with a power irresistible?



Brighter things:

The snuggled long weekend in Walpole. Tidy clear days out by the ocean, campfire smell as we fall into the tent at dark, waking with the sun, to coffee and the next adventure.
The trip to the winery with B and P- scenes of such cliched and perfect Australiana it made my eyeballs itch.
Trying to sleep on Monday night, while the 26 degree night struggled at the window. It all felt heavy and just a little bit magical.
The text that came at lunchtime today, as I fretted at the bank: "Hianyzol. xxx" and I stood for long seconds, clutching the phone to my chest and grinning like an idiot.

Tonight I have a date with Betty Blue, after some shopping and a bath for Norma. Why do white cars get shat on more than other colours? It's not right...