Right, yes, hello again. It's the next installment of Andy's story. Just to recap, Andy left the office on another uninspiring day at work and decided to get drunk (alone) and send himself home, lapping up a greasy kebab. He gets on the train, looking like he's slept rough in a landfill site for several days, scaring women and children, before he's met by his sober friend from work catching the train home with his partner. Don't know what's going on? Read the previous installment here.
Andy's colleague and his kooky looking boyfriend were uncomfortable. It was one of those moments when you wish you could just rip your own face off, turn it inside out and replace it with an altogether different face that no one knows or recognises. It would be called the 'reversible face' and it would save you from untold embarrassment and agonising chit chat with ghastly people you wish you weren't associated with.
This particular conversation lasted no longer than two stops, but it was excruciating. It was awkward, mindless spaff that concluded with Si's boyfriend stating the bloody obvious, 'Well it's nice to meet you Andy... you're gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow dude.' Dude? How old was this guy. He was wearing skinny jeans and a Ramones T-shirt. What a tool.
Si and his hippy toy boy sat two seats in front. Far enough to distinguish themselves from an unsavoury character such as himself, but not so far that he should be offended. They talked about the raw prawn appetizers, the expensive merlot and Jenny 'the slutty marketing girl' falling out of her bra. Andy began to feel desperately sad again. His achy head pulsed and as he looked down at the empty bottle of mainstream poison held fast in his hand, he despaired. He couldn't bear their contentment. It wasn't happiness, just a bit of peace and satisfaction to round out a meaningful day. Andy had totally forgotten what that felt like.
Just when he thought he couldn't stand to feel this way for a minute longer he became suddenly overwhelmed by something quite distressing. It became clear that he was going to be sick. As the train pulled up to the next stop, he threw the remains of his kebab off his lap, grappled with his umbrella and suitcase and scrambled to the carriage doors. As they opened he bent over double and released the entire contents of his stomach on to the platform... and on to someone's small dog.
'Oh sweet Jesus. I'm so bloody sorry.' The owner looked like she might have an aneurysm. She was a wizen thing wearing a long shapeless dress with tiny parrots all over it, and a knotted woolly cardigan. The dog shook violently and rolled over and over again. It seemed to be disgusted by the smell. The poor old lady, who kind of looked familiar, just picked up her dog and pulled herself up on to the train. As Andy wiped his mouth and began walking away, he heard that sweet little lady call him a prick. Wow.
He walked home. He felt like he didn't even deserve a taxi right now. He eventually made it to the street in Clapham where he lived. He scuffed his smart shoes on the wet pavement and deliberately stood on snails to hear the crunch. He felt the urge to swing around a lamp post and kick his heels up to his bottom. Then he abruptly stopped. It was a headless pigeon that did it. He felt his stomach flip again. It was right in his path obstructing his next footfall. The culprit was no doubt a well-fed fox. Nasty flame-haired demons. He could imagine it now, chewing on the dead bird's sinews and licking the blood off it's sharp tiny teeth. But it was only the head that was of use to the mangy scavenger; the body wasn't worth guzzling or taking back to the den. Andy bent down and tried to focus on the bird. He even picked it up to see it clearer, but the alcohol had made his fingers numb and his eyes completely useless. He thought the animal would feel gritty, unclean and damp, but it was soft and still warm.
It was only three feet to the gate at the front of his house, but it took him about fifteen minutes to make it to the front door. He was being careful not to drop the bird which he cradled in his left hand, leaving his right hand to struggle with the brolley and briefcase. In retrospect he realised how insane he looked. Days later he would mull over this extremely blurred portion of the day and desperately try to rationalise his properly absurd behaviour. Part of his brain - a place so insipid and frankly terrifying - thought he might know what possessed him to bring a decapitated bird into his house, the remainder, hadn't the foggiest. He wondered then, why it was always the worst part of his personality which revealed itself every time he got through a whole bottle of cheap vodka.
It was that mindless, anti-social idiot which also forgot that his wife would be loading the dish washer at this precise moment. The first thing he did after he stumbled up the large paving slab which served as a door-step, was dump the seemingly unimportant items in his right hand, at the front door. The second was to take the bloody offering still clamped in his left hand, into the kitchen 'to get it cleaned up'. He found a towel resting on the radiator as he made his way through his house, swaying from side to side, nudging his shoulders on the door frames. He placed the bird on the dining table and wrapped it up in the towel.
'Andy? What the hell are you doing?' she said.
