Open Writing

'Jo-oan!'

'Yes dear?'

'Here a minute!'

'Hang on a tic, just putting the jug on.'

He wishes she wouldn't yell, it sends jumping jacks leaping through his brain. He has a hangover—a real doozey—but it had been a great birthday. His mates had all come, well, as many as could these days. A shaking hand rubs his face.

The last thing he remembers was belting out Simply the Best at the top of his lungs hanging out of the Moreton Bay Fig tree at Memorial Park.

He flings back the bed covers and rolls on to his side. His head declines the offer to raise itself from the pillow, sending a throbbing rejection from eye to eye and ear to ear. He tries to move the rest of his body to get more comfortable but nothing is happening.

'Jooaannn!' he moans.

'Here, I've brought you a coffee.' She holds out two Disprin. 'You'll probably want these as well.'

He tries to sit up aided by a variety of curses and several more pillows. Objects round the room take on a variety of coloured stripes until he prises his lids apart with his fingers. He notices the empty space next to the chair.

'Christ Almighty!' he roars, 'where's me bloody leg? Ooohh!' He slumps back into the pillows cocooning his head in his hands.

'You silly old fool,' says Joan. 'You lost it yesterday. The last we saw of it was when you waved it over your head and threw it at the barman.'

He peers through his fingers at her. 'I didn't.'

'You did,' she states firmly. He looks aghast. 'You're just lucky we were at the RSL and it was Anzac Day otherwise you'd really be in trouble.'

'Anything else ... ?' he whimpers.

'Yes.' Her voice bounces around inside the empty space left by his shrunken brain. 'You're due to apologise to the neighbours ...'

'I am?'

'At 11.30am,' Joan checks her watch and says with a satisfied smile, 'which is in twenty minutes. It was her son you threw your leg at.'

'Oh no! Not Tan ...' He slides further down the bed.

'They're refugees from Laos, by the way.' He cowers under the covers. 'And then you have to go and apologise to the club. The president was not impressed. Wait till I get hold of Paul Drummond. He's no best mate. Giving you whisky chasers! And you're no better ... with your health!' Joan rounds on her husband demanding an explanation which he can't give. It isn't her fault—she hadn't been there—you had to be there to understand. 'You know you can't drink like that any more. What were you thinking?'

There was no reply from the hump under the covers. Joan ground her teeth and slammed the bedroom door as she left.

© Isolde

Isolde writes for Bonzer! magazine. Olease vist www.bonzer.org.au