- Holly Searle
- London, United Kingdom
- Holly Searle is a writer who was born in Westminster in the middle of London. She shares her birthday with Jarvis Cocker and David Seaman and like Jarvis Cocker she wears glasses but has nothing whatsoever in common with David Seaman. She is fascinated by words, people and their stories, and regularly spends hours fantasising about being offered a weekly column. She has a degree in Film and Television which she gained from Brunel University in 1997. She has been blessed with two quite remarkable children whom she adores. She enjoys the company of her friends and the circus that is life. Long Walk to Forever by Kurt Vonnegut is her favourite short story. She is the author of the published children's tale The Story of Balan Singh, and is currently working on her first book.
Friday, 21 June 2013
Drink! By Holly Searle
I am not a good drinker. So, I don't drink.
Okay, I may have lied a bit, as I don't mind the odd glass or two of something. Usually, to toast an event with my family on a special occasion, or, on a night out with friends. But as a rule, I hardly touch the stuff.
I am not a good drunk. And I am not good at being drunk.
Not because I am prone to aggressive behaviour or outburst. I am not that sort of a drunk. I am the sort that just gets all silly and will tell you how great I think you are, and how much I love you.
I am an emotional sort of drunk.
In that state, when I am a bit worst for wear, I find it makes me feel a little bit vulnerable. And, to be honest with you, I just don't like feeling like that.
No, I quite like to be in charge of all of my faculties, especially when I have to rely on the power of my own steam to see me home safely in one unstaggering piece.
Now, if you don't drink that often, when you do, it only takes a small amount of whatever it is you might fancy on any of these given occasions, to make you more than a little merry.
I am not only an emotional drunk it would seem, but I am also an economical one as well.
I once had a group of friends who couldn't quite understand why I didn't drink too excess as they did.
They would drink, as if they had heard that as of the following day, prohibition was being reinstated.
I had no problem with their drinking. But, boy, did they have an issue with me not following in their unsteady footsteps.
They felt very uncomfortable being in the company of someone who wasn't necking the sauce like they were.
On one such occasion, they were in full swing, and filling their boots with whatever they could lay their hands on. I stood there and watched them all larking about, and acting like fools, when one of them approached me and said "You know what your problem is Holly? You need to loosen up a bit and drink more."
I was more than a little offended by this. But then I soon realised, that when you chose not to drink too excess socially, your sobriety can make others feel uncomfortable.
I had been to several dos with this particular bunch of people. One I attended, I arrived to find a majority of them slurring their words, while a minority were passed out cold where they sat, with their heads resting on the tables in front of them.
It wasn't a pretty sight and I felt embarrassed by their behaviour.
I didn't mention it, as I felt that it wasn't my place too draw their attention to my discomfort.
I felt it was rude to mention it.
I may have needed to loosen up a bit more, but I had started to find their drunken lifestyle choices dull and more than a little boring.
So, I decided not to see those people any more.
Like my desire not to drink too excess, I felt I made this choice, based upon the fact that it suited my personality better than it suited theirs.
And, do you know what? That suited me just fine.
And then there was the last time that I was drunk....
It was my birthday and I had made arrangements to meet up with a group friends (no not those ones).
I arrived all bright and shiny as a new pin. I had even left my specs at home that night and had popped my contact lenses in for good measure.
When I arrived my friends were insistent that as it was my birthday, they should buy me as many drinks as possible. And they did, and they were doubles.
I was unaware of their generosity for about half an hour, or so, until the room started to spin a bit. So I decided to slow down and sit down.
I found a quiet spot, and sat very still.
But the room's insistence at mimicking a wurlitzer ride at a funfair, refused to abate. And its efforts to spin me right round, baby right round, like a record baby, until I was well and truly dizzy, was beyond repair.
At this point, my daughter (who was an adult, I might add) approached the lonely slumped figure that was her once responsible parent, and suggested it might be a good idea if we got a cab home.
I was in full agreement, and so we left.
Much to her amusement, I was trying to do that thing that you do when you are drunk. I was trying to conduct myself in the manner of a person who wasn't drunk at all, by giving the taxi driver clear and concise directions to our home, and failing with a capital F.
Of course she saw through this straight away, and found it hilarious.
And then there were those involuntary little squeaks that kept vocally emanating from me, every time we drove over a speed bump.
She found those funny too.
Once indoors, I just wanted to lay down in a darkened room and go to sleep, just as I did on every other night of the week. I also needed my nightly glass of water next to my bed, and must have repeated this request more than once to my daughter. For she soon delivered a glass to my bedside table, instructing me that she had done so in the manner of a parent who was growing impatient with the behaviour of their naughty child.
I mumbled my shameful thanks, and bid her goodnight and turned off the light, and laid my sorry head down on the pillow,
For a while, the room span.
It was reckless.
I prayed for sleep and looked forward to the following morning when normality would return.
After a fashion, it arrived and I slept.
The following morning after I woke and had opened my eyes, two thoughts occurred to me in very quick succession; one, my sight had been restored (a miracle!), and two, I realised that in my drunken state, I had left my contact lenses in.
I went to the bathroom in a mild panic, and peeled them off of my eyes.
My eyes felt like they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and my cursed myopia returned.
I sighed, and went back to bed.
And so I learnt from this experience, and from many others just like it, that I had missed the actual point of the evening, simply because I was too drunk to enjoy it.
And so, if you are ever out drinking with me, please, carry on at your own pace.
I am happy enough, taking it slowly and just enjoying the evening.
You needn't worry about me.
I am just fine.