I wake up with the alarm that last night I’d deliberately set an hour later than normal. Then, it had seemed a great idea but now, in the morning’s glare, much less so. I am experiencing the devil’s own hangover. My mouth tastes atrocious, like I’ve drunk canine urine rather than beer; my tongue is as dry and brittle as parchment and my body aches all over. I sit up and then my brain realises where it is and what it’s been through and gets all pissy, taking its revenge by pounding my skull like a bastard. Grabbing my head does nothing to hold the reverberations — it fucking hurts. Then my bladder joins in, shrieking at me that it’s a distended balloon about to explode and redecorate the walls and ceiling in an unpleasant shade of yellow.
I simply cannot face going into work. The thought of being shaken around for two hours on the never-ending train journey into London is bad enough, but Hershey also hates tardiness and I suspect that after yesterday’s antics this will simply be fuel to the flames of rage. I also really must recover in case Claire decides to come home. We’ve a lot to talk about and looking like death warmed up is hardly going to start the conversation off well.
I can claim a work-at-home day, even though everyone knows this is just a euphemism for doing fuck-all (like writing a book). But it’s probably better to claim I’m sick, which is about to be true. Although it’s an outside shot, the sympathy might help my case. But before I pick up the phone I need to relieve the seismic pressure on my bladder. I crawl out from under the duvet, slither (sort of) onto the floor, then crawl lethargically down the corridor to the bathroom, like a parched man in a vast desert, my tongue hanging out and panting like a dog. I edge into the tight little space, push the door shut with my foot and lever myself up onto the seat. I tell myself that all over the country pensioners with recent hip replacements must be going through exactly the same process.
As well as being utterly bereft of energy I need to piss like a woman because if I stand up like a real man I’ll spray everything and everywhere except the toilet. But I don’t care — minimising the pain and post-piss clear up job are my only concerns. Despite the pressure it takes a little time and persistence to get the flow going, but when it does it’s a major relief.
After emptying my bladder, which seems to take forever, I grope around in the medicine cabinet for a couple of headache pills. In the end I take four (I assume the manufacturers just say two at a time because they’re risk averse). Then I slide back onto the floor (without washing my hands) and resume my asthmatic skulk along the corridor until I reach Jack’s door. I get no answer to my pathetic efforts at a knock. Assuming he’s still sensibly comatose I push the door open and enter. To my surprise the bed’s empty. He’s gone. A note scrawled in shaky script in which he thanks me for my ‘company’ and reminding me of the party on Saturday confirms my suspicions. I put the kettle on and brew a coffee, cafetière, of course, none of that instant shit no matter how rough I feel.
Whilst the coffee grounds are doing their thing I pick up my mobile phone and call Elodie who, you may like to forget, is Hershey’s icy French secretary bitch. Amazingly she isn’t on strike, like the rest of her countrymen always seem to be, and being unusually efficient she picks up the call on the second ring.
“Hi Elodie, it’s Josh. I feel awful and I’m afraid I won’t be coming into the office today,” I say, thinking I don’t have to try too hard to portray how bad I feel.
“Josh who?” Elodie replies.
I hold my temper and say, “Dedman, Josh Dedman.”
“Oh yes, you. You are ill you say?”
“Yes,” I croak, “I feel terrible, I think...I think I have the flu or something, I feel sick and my head is pounding.”
“It’s July,” she observes. I can imagine her looking out of the window at the blinding sunlight, “I do not know of anyone who has ever had flu when it is ninety degrees in the shade.”
“Well now you do.”
Elodie snorts, “It is just too much bière.”
I decide to shut down the conversation as quickly as possible. She’s being far too observant for my liking. “Can you tell Hershey, please, that I won’t be in today?”
“When will you be returning?” she asks in a tone that suggests I perhaps never should and I have a tendency to agree with her.
“I don’t know. I may try to struggle in tomorrow.”
“Ah oui, perhaps the hangover will have worn off by then.”
I ignore her. “There’s no point infecting everyone. It’s not fair and it’s not professional.”
I swear Elodie laughs but she manages to stifle it. “Well, whatever, as you English like to say. I will e-mail you a self-certification form for you to lie on when you fill it in.”
“Thanks,” I say with mock appreciation and cut the connection, making sure I hear the dialling tone before I say, “you fucking bitch.”
I pour myself some coffee, slop in plenty of milk and drink half of it in one, long gulp, relishing the burning sensation as it hits my throat and stomach. Bloody hell I feel awful. I go back to bed but it’s challenging crawling down the corridor with a mug full of scalding coffee in one hand, I can tell you.