Clueless

Last night I accompanied my girlfriend and her family to a private showing of a new exhibition in an Art Gallery in the exclusive Cork Street Gellery, London. I met the artist, rubbed shoulders with some serious art crtitics and admired the works. Based on a trip to Venice, there were about 60 pieces and it was all very civilised. I felt quite "young London" and had a great time.

I also enjoyed the free champagne. A lot.

My girlfriend got drunk. And very giggly. Her brother, not unknown for his affairs with intoxication also found more favour in the champagne than a boy of 19 maybe should. When we came to leave they approached me, both in fits of giggledom and demanded to know my levels of enebriation. "Seven glasses in I may be, but drunk I am not." They retired to dispute my claims amongst themselves. My girlfriend's father strolled up - a repsected businessman, well spoken and forthright.

"Fancy the front seat for the ride home?"
"Yeeeessss! Rollin' with ma homies...!" I sang.

My cover was blown. The siblings, racaous and smug in their laughter piled in the back and we began the journey home. Soon we were in the midst of a serious political discussion and I disnegaged my brain, prefering the bright lights of London as they flicked past, the architecture and streaked illumination like fastfood for my tired eyes. All at once we were at a junction and my brain registered a location I recognised. Without thinking I opened my mouth and let the start of an interjection leap out. Midway through my excited exclamation I recoiled and tried to stifle the rest of the sentence, succeeding in muffling only the words, and not the volume. Having gained the attention of the surrounding passengers, and having achieved the dubious honour of interrupting the discussion on the current British foreign policy in Iraq, I was asked to re-enunciate and recommunicate.

"Well, I was going to point out that I got really drunk in that pub and was sick all down myself. But it didn't seem appropriate."