Oftentimes I'm prone to a great stupidity.
Witness last night. Went out for Owen's birthday to Bowes, got hammered and had a burger afterwards. Breaking my body for the last time this year, I should have shown more temperance but the shindig took over.
I don't remember getting home, or going to bed, or what happened between. No memory.
I woke up this morning with the fear. The worst fear I've known in a long time. I knew I'd been sending texts but could not recall to whom or the content. Fuck fuck.
I couldn't find my phone, looked all over, nothing. Nothing. Fuck. What did I...? Fuck.
I went into town to buy a new phone and block the old one. I sat down to have a coffee and turn on my new mobile, but couldn't get the back off to put in the battery. Fuck.
I went to HMV to spend a voucher and then back to the Vodafone shop. "I can't open this piece of shit phone you sold me an hour ago."
He sorted it in seconds. I put in the battery and SIM card and waited for the post-mortem texts to come my way, like the lad in the Diageo ad whose friends text him, saying, "you really fucked up last night" or some such.
Nothing beeped except for Owen telling me that Steven Gerrard had been arrested for assault.
I got the bus home, made another coffee, put in all the numbers I could remember and kept wondering who I'd been texting last night. Was it her? Shit. Was it her?
Then, all hope vanished, I found the phone I thought I'd lost, charging up under a mess of clothes on my bedroom floor. I switched it on, checked the Sent Items, and held my breath...