New Years Eve and the Pathologically Dramatic

Moments before things take a horrible lurch to the left

Ugh, ugh, ugh. Setting out for Henry's farm in the Wairarapa for New Years Eve, I decided to heavily sedate myself with 'Kava-Ever-So-Calm' to control my sudden urges to bawl my eyes out (I was riding over with some friends of Julia who I didn't know AT ALL and was desperate not to make a complete fool of myself). 

So, very quiet all the way there; arrived; drank copiously and Like Unto the Fish and on an empty stomach;  felt awkward around the people I didn't know (many) and like a sympathy whore with those I did know (few); staggered, plastered, to the tent just after midnight, where I threw up copiously: all over myself, the inside of the tent and just outside in the vestibules, and (the piece de resistance, Methinks) in my shoes. 

You'd think this an Concealable, if unbelievably Pathetic Occurence, with little faux pas value. Not so, unfortunately, as Henry's very sweet girlfriend Julia grabbed her friend Emma to find me when she noticed I hadn't been around for a while: I was completely KO'ed and didn't hear them banging on the tent or calling my name, but when they looked inside my tent they found Me, passed out and covered in my own vomit. Tres classy, tres chic.

This morning I threw up three times before breakfast and had to clean my own vomit off all of my belongings, but felt much better after a swim in my underwear in the fabulous key hole shaped pool, gossiping discussing and overanalysing, playing word games, and explaining Thunderbirds to an American PhD student, who was visiting from New York and reading Diderot beside the pool. 

My ride back with the same three, rather fabulous girls was great fun and involved an unplanned diversion to Martinborough where hot chips and iceblocks were procured, so now, having been back something like an hour, I feel a million billion times better than I did yesterday, and am about to have a shower and wash all my clothes before painting my fingernails and toenails rose pink and watching Civilisation: A Personal View by Lord Clark which I suspect will be as snobbish and elitist as the Nancy Mitford book I'm reading at the moment. Super fab.