On Tuesday the guilt of indulging myself with Audrey Hepburn movies and Moscow Mules got to me so, every so slightly inebriated I climbed the rickety stepladder and started painting the ceiling.
I don't know what it is about painting ceilings and alcohol but last night I decided that going home, cooking and doing useful things was not to be borne. So I walked through the glorious Leeds night to Brewery Wharfe and settled myself in Azukar Bar. My intention was to soak in the fairy-lit grotto and begin reading Peter Labrow's book The Well whilst thinning out my blood with tequila. Given that the ever fabulous Howard Marks practically lives in Azukar Bar it's a good place to go with the intention of literary escapism.
I called The Boy, told him I was taking him out to dinner at Oracle when he had finished working and sat there for a good hour before he could tear himself away. So far, I LOVE The Well, it was the perfect accompaniment to 3 Azucar Margaritas on an empty stomach. Mmmmm tequila, lillet rouge and citrus juices, orange bitter and salt and pepper agave syrup. Flavoursomeness. I dimly remember Tweeting Peter whilst I was reading it - multi-tasking for the win! Hope your curry and ale went down well, dude!
We went from the dark exotic atmosphere of Azukar Bar with Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas projected silently on one wall and Kings of Leon purring over the top to the cool, minimalist haven that is downstairs at Oracle and after selecting a table which looked out on the water we proceeded to stuff our faces with fabulous burgers (goat's cheese and beetroot for me, chicken and avocado for The Boy), sticky sweet potato wedges and hoof down a bottle of rioja.
If we'd have been sitting upstairs in the more opulent surroundings I'd have gone for a Beaujolais but it was too cold outside for chilled wine and after drinking spicy tequila drinks I needed some spicy rioja to go with it.
Needless to say we both got drunk. Me because I'd mixed wine with tequila, The Boy because he has no tolerancy for alcohol whatsoever. I forget exactly why but we had one of those jokey arguments which ended in me telling him that I would speak to him only in French until he conceeded and gave me my own way.
We had walked almost all the way home with him asking me questions which I answered in French resulting in him wailing "WHAT ARE YOU SAYING? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME! PLEASE PLEASE STOP!" whilst I laughed at him through a haze of French.
We're ever so silly.
Ziggy played guitarrrrrraaaaarrrrraaaarrrrrr.
Title: Changes by David Bowie