Writing a Novel

He did make it to the toilet, but he didn’t know which way to face it as he finally crashed onto it as things explosively exited both ends in perfect unison with the torrent gushing from his mouth hitting the wall opposite before crawling slowly down that wall driven by gravity to the floor tiles below…

Even as he felt so weak and headachey he knew he had to make an effort to clean the mess on the wall and now expanding onto the floor too. If he didn’t, when he awoke feeling weak and nauseous later he would regret it. So with water squirter in hand he set about spraying and chasing the adhering molecules down the wall to their brothers on the floor and then working in a semi circular arc slowly drove the mess towards the little drain hole with its tiny silvery cover with equally tiny holes in the corner of the bathroom. He longed for a greater water pressure as the work seemed endless and eddies seemed to defy every advance he made, and as it neared the drain he knew full well he would have to clear the chunks that would inevitably and predictably get lodged in the small holes with his fingers…

Having  achieved that he lifted the large pink plastic sachet of floor cleaner and splashed its flowery odours around before giving it a last cursory spray with the water squirter. It would need to smell good too if it wasnt to disturb the hideous sickly feeling he would have after a sleep. It was though all worth it in his mind even through the light-headed, empty feeling consuming him complete with the acidic sparking feeling in his teeth and a nose that would need blowing to clear before even attempting sleep…

It was now done and bed called him in his room next to the bathroom, and it was the sensible thing to do. But even after the effects of three days of solid alcohol consumption and very little food, rest and of course the drugs he still felt that urge that need for a sudden drink and these were urges that he never resisted, never ever. And he knew that a drink or two now would make things feel a lot better at least temporarily. And he also knew that a drink or two now wouldn’t be a drink or two at all but the launching of a new campaign in yet another attempt to seek further adventure and happenings of interest that if he were lucky he may remember at a later date although that was a rarity in itself and with each passing year became more and more so. Anyway he deserved a reward for all that cleaning and if truth be known the bathroom hadn’t had a clean in ages and so there were advantages to utter debauchery…

So it was off to the kitchen refrigerator where the likelihood of cold beer seemed highest, but getting there it was empty. Now there must be other places where he had left a half-finished bottle of whisky at some time and he clearly remembered a bottle of wine. A good wine or at least an expensive one that he had put away to savour one day, but put away where? And had he really finished all the Tequila that was also usually in the refrigerator or had he left it out somewhere. And even if nothing could be found there were the all night shops that sold pretty much anything you wanted. Was it better to look for something to drink he had stashed around the house and risk wasting time on heading to the shop, which was a long walk or should he just head off for the shop now and risk feeling an utter knob when returning his eyes immediately focused on the whisky? Ah decisions and such difficult ones and being decisive even when sober wasnt his strong point so rather than make the decision he stood, still light-headed, and suddenly hungry dithering…

The night air was surprisingly cool for the tropics but it was October and there was the possibility of an early cool season setting in, and it was four in the morning and the wind was coming from the north which was different from normal. It was quiet as he quickly headed down his lane disturbing the dogs in every house to create an opera of dischordancy. Reaching the corner and suddenly turning left gambling on the nearest shop being still open he had a sudden panic that he had forgotten something and that it wasnt fair that all this had to be done just to get a drink, but all he needed was money and he could feel his wallet in left pocket. Better check how much. The wallet though was stuffed mostly with old credit card bills and there was only two hundred baht in two crisp red notes. God he thought, he had spent so much, more than he could remember over the previous few days. Still two hundred would get four or five large bottles of cheap but strong local beer. But was that enough…

The ATM was a detour of well over half a kilometer but it was best to be sure and maybe five wouldn’t be enough and he couldn’t be arsed going out again. When he returned he wanted to relax and enjoy the nice quiet drink he deserved, which would also give him a chance to review what had happened the last few days and get him into that feeling of creativity which always came at a certain stage of inebriation for him although it had a habit of disappearing again as the amount of alcohol increased, but he felt today would be a creative day. A day when this time he would really get that one great idea, that one moment of inspiration that would enable him to see and express what life was about in the most artistic of manners, which meant the written word for him. Yes now he was knowing he had made the right decision by not just going to bed…

Now sitting at the highly varnished soft wood table in his small garden surrounded by the smells of lush but vegetation he noticed that the first light of dawn was coming as he looked up from his laptop. Already three empty large bottles sat on the table along with a freshly opened new one, a green bucket of ice and the whisky bottle still remarkably full that he had found as soon as he had returned from his quest for alcohol. None of that mattered though as now his refrigerator had a crate of beer in it and he had even had the foresight to buy a pack of light cigarettes, even though he had given up six months ago, in case he felt like one or he wanted to mix it with something stronger, and he had even managed to buy five of those little plastic wrapped triangular ham and mayonnaise sandwiches that stores sold on occasions just to cover any hunger pangs. And now he felt that perfect mix of relaxation, no worry and the faint buzz of alcohol hitting home leaving him right at the start of the perfect balance for his creativity to flow, and he continued to type. This time everything was perfect…

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