Hang

I think my hangover is just starting to kick in. When I awoke this morning I was still quite merry.

How do I write about last night/yesterday, considering most of the folk who read this blog were conspicous by their absense, and the folk who were there, well, they know what happened.

I started off very quiet at the picnic, slightly worried by people running away or avoiding my, but then this one time Rupert beckoned me in from my isolation. Chatted to a few people in the park, folk who I well, usually chat to at this sort of thing.

It was only after the wandering the streets in torrential rain that my anxiety broke, and at the pub I was fair chatting to lots of people. Kind of developing a new technique of chatting for a bit to lull folk into a false sense of security, being quite nice, and then getting introduced. It sort of undermined people's preconceptions.

At first anyway, I think as I got drunker and more boisterous, I reverted to type.

Was I even there?

Not sure, I think I was half there and half drifting over the waves of the text-messageosphere.

It was missing people, great swathes of folk from the past eight years of Bowlie, missing. Whatever reasons they have are pish.