Based on a proper assumption and years of experience, I took a bus to a weekend retreat. The assumption was, of course, that I would not be able to get back in time, would I need to wait to regain senses, a.k.a. get sober enough to drive. The weekend retreat is, of course again, just an assumed alias for a drinking spree covered as a Christmas party. Imagine "Last Christmas" of Wham mischievous fame, sans mountains, cabin and cheesy eighties. Sans cheesy romantic, too. Basically, what you get is a bash with a number of single thirty-somethings, all ready to rock and roll.
Anyway — long story short — while it took me four hours to get to my destination, it only took me one and a half hour to get from greetings to bed. In the meantime, I managed to get totally hammered and throw up number of times in various places, which included obvious favourites of drunks: a toilet and a balcony. Bad, too bad indeed.
Woke up at 5 AM, just in time to scribble this post, have a glass of water and return home for lunch. By bus, naturally, as my original assumption was correct. Too correct.
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