everyday is like sunday

Last Friday night I got the train to Plymouth to see my ex-landlady, Ruby, for a much needed beach break. I have never been to Cornwall or Devon before, this is *excitement*. I arrive about midnight. Back at Ruby’s we have a bottle of wine and catch up on the goss. Its amazing how time flies when you’ve got a full bottle.

So in danger of oversleeping the next morning I am rudely woken by tiny paws jumping all over me. Dear lord, my head. There was a lot of clattering downstairs. Can’t believe Ruby is awake already. Ten more minutes. That’s all, ten more minutes with cat and I’ll come down. Then I fall asleep again. Woken later by a ring at the doorbell. Ruby goes to answer. Cat is still sleeping on me. Upside down on his back with his cute little back feet in my face. Bless him. Bloody hell, its only 8.30. What time did Ruby get up? Eventually, about an hour later, me and pussykins get up. “Who the bloody hell, is that?” asks Ruby. What? I know I look like shit first thing in the morning but come on, I’m not unrecognisable. “Where did that cat come from?” wow, I thought it was Ruby’s cat. Apparently not. Apparently, he had broken in through an open window and found the nearest snugly bed with me in it. Purrrr.

We spend the day at Tintagel Castle pretending to be Arthurian knights charging about the place, thankfully minus the chain mail. Well, bored of that the rest of the day is spent in glorious 23 degree heat picnicking in Merlin’s cave. Well, this is the life. If it wasn’t for the factor 30 I might actually be in danger of getting a tan.

No trip to Plymouth is complete without a gin or two. However, attempting to drink all the gin in Plymouth is probably a very poor idea. Thankfully, for the good people of Plymouth the gin distillery is closed for business. It all started off brilliantly, but five hours later some Scottish man is pinching my drink in a blues bar and I’m rather pissed off. I might be too pissed to drink it myself but you cannae have it, lovey! The next thing I can remember is getting home in cab and realising we have no cash. So that’s a drive back to a cash point and a u turn home again. £45. fuck. Ooh! There’s some gin. Yum yum. We have a conversation that started about food, moves on to the sensory integration issues of the cat (my theory is he was taken away from his mummy too early in life and now has a few attachment problems) and ends somehow with me crying. Not just weeping drunkenly. Crying in full mourning. God knows what that was about.

The next day I am once again woken by the stamping of hefty paws all over me. Oh hello! He (now called Michael) looks rather shocked to see a human in his bed. I lov you Michael but I am just way too fucked to tickle your chin. I wake up sometime later with Michael determined to get under the covers with me, closely followed by Ruby. I’m not sure I can move. There is some sort of small, furry creature burrowing in my brain and its killing me. “Zilpha, we have to get up! Its 12.30!” oh fuck. I tried to move. It bloody hurt. Michael isn’t impressed; cat wants cuddles. Hang on, where the hell did cat come from? All the doors and windows were locked. Hmm…

Sometime, just before 3pm Ruby and I managed to choke down enough pain killers to be able to stand up without swaying under the heavy, heavy pain of hangover. 45 minutes later we arrive on a beach. A quick strip off, run into the sea like a pasty white whale, splash about, run back to our towels and have a ten minute sunbathe. No kidding, its now time to drive all the way back to Plymouth to get my train home. The sea is exactly the best cure for an evil hangover. We should have done this earlier. Five hours of train journey back to London grime. Can’t wait to come back.