the drunken phone call

this is the one where you dial the number, and you hang up. and you dial again. and you hang up. and you dial again. and say let the god of alcohol dictate what i shall say. and you say. hello. and then you mumble a few things. and you don't let the gods dictate anything because what the hell do the gods know? they've been stuck on mount olympus for so long, and baccus is now middle aged and has three kids to look after, and venus is all wrinkled in spite of the botox, and artemis became a vegetarian long ago and is not hunting any more "because of her principles" and the vestal virgins...well, you know, that was a long time ago and the flesh is weak. so instead you say something about the football scores and the phone lines being down -- which they are! you haven't made that bit up! -- and so the drunken call goes on, nicely and easily just as it's meant to do. and the gods are all watching it from their sofa. nodding in approval. oh we're all so grown up aren't we now. how much more grown up than two seconds ago, when we dialled the number and we were feeling at least oh six years of age. which was a good age. when you learned to skip. you found a rhyme. you learned to ride a bycicle. do you remember? up and down luiz franzini, the little wheels off. the dogs barking on the side, but you ignored them oh you're so grown up, and boosh! you went...no little wheels, on your mock-chopper-bike. cycling away, all grown up, ready to go.