Boxes

Last night we all went out and got very drunk for Shelley's birthday. We started out at the Town and Gown: Phil came across from Watermouth College and brought his girlfriend Fiona.

I got drunk on numerous whiskies, vodkas, Southern Comforts and a couple of pints of cider. Beverly was legless; I’ve never seen her so pissed before and she gazed about with that big, broad toothy ear-to-ear smile of hers, and when she stood up she could hardly walk: we stumbled arm-in-arm back to Westway Loop bar where I talked with Shelley about family and her mental tortures.

She says feels no different than she did before and told me it was useless trying to help her, that we are all trapped in our little boxes, unable to break through to one another on a deeper, more important level. No doubt because of my alcohol-sensitivity this realisation upset me and I was almost in tears. I get too emotional over nothing.

Back in Wollstonecraft I drunkenly stumbled from room to room, wandering upstairs with Pete and Lindsey to watch a cellist and a violinist play in the upstairs kitchen. I really don’t recall too much  else; suffice to say I got to bed somehow and woke up late today.