So. What is it tonight then, Rum Sunday?
I looked up from the incredibly important YouTube research I was doing on the existence of Outer Space to see the Good Lady towering above me like a not very sexy Mothra.
Um. What's that you say?
I gave her my best Columbo eyebrow.
Tonight? Rum Sunday, is it?
She asked with the distinct air of not asking but delivering an invitation to danger.
Rum Sunday, you say?
I let the phrase roll back and forth on my tongue.
Rum Sunday... Rrrrum Sunday.
It had quite the catchy feel to it. Heck, I was sold.
Well, why the fucking heck not. That sounds magic, chick!
I beamed at her.
She didn't beam back.
Instead, she cocked her hands on her hips as if it were the seventies again and she was doing a stern funky chicken.
Every night seems to have been a 'night' recently. Don't you think? Beer Saturday... Wine Friday... Whisky Wednesday... What did you call Thursday again?
She looked at me challengingly.
Erm, Coyote Thursday, I called it.
I mumbled, slightly abashed.
And the Coyote bit was because..?
I wanted to get 'howling' drunk.
I humphed with a grimace.
I know you have been suffering lately but don't you think you should lay off the booze a little?
The Good Lady pursed her lips, staring at me expectantly.
Lay off the booze!?
I quacked in indignation like a duck that's had broccoli thrown at it instead of good old fashioned bread.
A million reasons why I shouldn't lay off the booze ran through my mind. Most of them seemed to involve me confessing that it wasn't a recreational activity but was more of a superpower that I had been gifted with in order to save the world.
I looked up and saw the concern on her face.
Bugger, she might have a point.
Alright then, I will calm down a bit on the booze. You could give me a mouth shandy tonight instead, if you don't mind? Take my mind of it?
I looked at her hopefully.
She snorted and walked away shaking her head.
Oh well. It was worth a try.