Fresh Lime & SOda
Rejoining the convo with this sound of death really didn’t help anyone.
A Sober Commute
After numerous experiences of being slightly too drunk on public transport, I decided tonight was the night to try being not drunk. Sober. Some might say less fun, but that could just be a reflection of me as a person. Maybe I’m too formal. This was my chance to be the new me, or rather the old me, as I’ve spent 90 percent of my life not drinking, maybe 5 percent actually drinking, and the other 5 percent being high on life. Wow, that was corny.
I keep wanting to say “hey ho” after these truth bombs to cover the fact that they’re true. So this is my way, I did a sober commute home after a night out, and all I’ll say, other than the story, which I’ll get to, is that it felt like the universe was telling me to just get drunk and enjoy it.
The Pizza Incident
Trains were running fine. Tubes were on point. Everything was working normally. I went for a pizza and drinks. The pizza was fantastic and exactly what I ordered, physically and spiritually.
The first slice did fill the air with a sense that this pizza might be a clusterfuck of ingredients in a non structurally sound way. However, that was it, only a sense. The first slice was lifted, and every single ingredient slipped off the base with ease.
Then, as I got my pizza first, which isn’t relevant, but it meant I had a lot of attention, trying to sweep up the pizza bits with some soggy dough was a test in itself. One I was really failing at. So I decided to get a drink.
The Drink Dilemma
Not an alcoholic beverage. I pondered asking for a brew, but I’ve only been to one pub that served tea at that time, and even that was an abomination. They just filled a mug with hot water, threw in a teabag, and immediately added milk.
So I knew maybe tonight wasn’t the night to throw some verbal nonsense at a bartender having a rough night, especially when some moron has asked for a cup of tea at a pub late at night. What a dick.
A glass of water was set off to the side, and in most situations, I never know what I want to drink, so I thought, play it safe. Go for a lime and soda. In my mind, it’s cheap and always tastes good. The soda water has a bit of excitement every time you drink it, and the sparkle of lime disguises the soda. Perfection in a glass.
This was a gentrified pub in North London, so I hope that helps you understand the shitshow that follows.
The Lime and Soda Disaster
He asked, “Do you want fresh lime?” I responded yes. From my time working in a pub, I assumed, with a reasonable amount of experience, that fresh lime meant cutting up a lime and placing it afloat in an already-made lime and soda.
No, no, no.
In this pub, a lime and soda meant cutting up a lime, using three slices, and placing them in a full pint of soda water, which for one is incredibly strong, and two, for any taste of lime, I had to go into the soda water, which was quite cold, grab the limes, squeeze the juice out, then place the squeezed limes back into the glass, as where the fuck was I meant to put them?
I was too shocked to ask for it to be remade and also blamed myself, so maybe I deserved that. I also thought, you never know, a pint of soda water with a dribble of lime might be somewhat nice.
A tip I was given was to drink it as fast as possible and get another drink. Now, I tried that, but drinking that much soda water in seconds lets the devil rise from your throat and is a terrible way to enter a conversation you haven’t been part of from the start, as you’ve been hyperfixated on the fucking pizza and lime and soda.
So rejoining the conversation with this sound of death really didn’t help anyone.
After a battle with a great pizza and the damage of soda, I decided enough was enough. I went up to the bar and asked for half a pint of lemonade. I thought I shouldn’t have to suffer, and I reminisced about my childhood, where half a pint of lemonade was all the hype. Nothing could beat that.
The Cold Reality
Throughout the day, it had been sunny. It was warm and bright, with no clouds in the sky. When we left, I thought only a light jacket was needed.
In Central London, there’s an effect caused by the wind and tall buildings; you’re basically stuck in a wind tunnel for the foreseeable future, and when it gets late, it gets cold. Really fucking cold.
With no beer jacket, and in my frozen hands, I held a half pint of lemonade filled with ice, as again I’m too shy to say no ice please, and I was freezing.
The Journey Home
I downed the pint and left. Popped my headphones on, and as I wasn’t shitfaced, I could listen to music and enjoy the pleasantry of car horns, uncontrollable Lime bikes, and really busy roads, and just be panicked and self-aware rather than being so fucked I could breeze through life like an unused bag for life. I think I’ve only bought a bag for life and used it once.
Anyway, I was checking the maps, which kept telling me to go to another station and that my train wasn’t running. Obviously, I didn’t agree. I kept reloading it, then kept saying, “Nah, it’ll be fine.”
I got the Tube, and it was warm and lovely. No one has ever said that before.
I got to London Bridge, and the train was cancelled. For fuck’s sake. I should have listened, but I felt too lazy to switch trains halfway through.
I boarded a slow train and was able to enjoy my reflection, as I couldn’t see anything out the window. I couldn’t watch a downloaded show, as I thought I’d be productive and do some work, but I had forgotten my laptop charger, so that plan was out the window, metaphorically. I sat with my thoughts and just plodded along. Something remarkable happened about ten minutes into the journey: a dog walked down the carriage. Just alone. Just strolling on by. The entire carriage was speechless. Very random, but in a world with so much darkness, a lone dog that appears out of nowhere really does stand out, and brightens anyone’s day.
The Not So Happy Ending
The train came to a halt, and I got off, obviously. I ran down the road like I was in the final scene of a romance movie, looking for the person about to jump on a bus to another city. I know it’s normally a plane, but within these circumstances, it was only a bus.
I missed that bus, so in the end, there isn’t a happy ending.
I sat there for 30 fucking minutes. Then, after I got on the bus, I sat in traffic for another 20 minutes before we even started moving. I then just walked home. And that was my sober commute. I would recommend it.