Goodwill to All Men

Mood: Angry, upset

Style: The I’ve-been-out-all-day look: chic 9 hours ago, now slightly skanky.

Ah, Christmas: goodwill to all men, compulsory daytime drinking, presents and that warm fuzzy feeling you get when you are surrounded with those you truly love. Except if they happen to be in a relationship with your sister, that is.

We (me, Mr P, the Brunette, her fella B and an old friend) were out and about enjoying many New Years Eve eve drinkies. Muchos booze was consumed, all was gay and quite blurry when we piled back to our old friend’s manor to carry on the party. It was hilarious: we played Guilty Pleasures with youtube, singing ourselves hoarse to Aerosmith and George Michael classics. Then, the fags ran out, the baccy was reduced to a mere dusting and tempers started to fray.

B accused me of not lifting a finger to help my sister with the caring of Dill, her son. He told me that the Brunette had a hard time bringing up a child and that I should chip in every now and then to help. Basically, in B’s opinion, I’m a shite aunty.

I do not profess to be Aunty of the Year by any stretch. I buy birthday and Christmas presents but only see my nephew very sporadically. This is because I work full-time, am not particularly maternal and prefer to spend my free time in an adult environment rather than at the local playground. It is also because I AM NOT HIS BLOODY MOTHER!

I have chosen not to procreate yet because I simply am not ready to devote huge swathes of my time to motherhood: I like going out and getting pissed, waking up the next day and lying in bed until my hangover subsides not until a little person bounces up and down on the bed screaming at me to wake up. The Brunette likes to do all of this too and, for a single mum, she gets her fair share of nights out. She actually only has Dill for one weekend a month as the rest of the time he’s with his daddy or his nana. In fact, she probably goes out more than I do. Not too shabby, eh?

I’m putting the blame on my sister here when I know the tirade from B was all him – none of it would’ve come from my sister; she was mortified when I started blubbing (not something I do often but it sure brings a swift halt to an argument so I might store that one in mr arsenal for future reference).

Anyway, B apologised, we both agreed that we had too much to drink and we drew a line under it.

The next night at the Brunette’s New Years Eve party, I caught B having a blazing row with his bezzie mate.His mate was rolling his eyes as if he;’d heard it all before, it’s just how B rolls when he’s had a few. So maybe I just happened to get in the line of B’s drunken fire, maybe he always argues with at least someone every time he gets pissed.

The thing is, what’s the point? Why get drunk? If you’re a depressive, weepy pisshead or a violent, aggressive pisshead, you should knock the booze on the head. In fact, make that your New Year’s resolution why don’t you, and let the rest of us enjoy the fun.

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This entry was posted in Bambinoes, Drunkety Drunk Drunk, Miss Ranty Pants. Bookmark the permalink.

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