The Day of the Dead was rather moribund

I awoke with great urgency at 6am: today was the first day of the rest of my life.

Then I realized I don’t do that sort of shit, and rolled over, going back to sleep till after 9, when I rolled over, farted the Hungarian national anthem in B flat, and made some coffee. That is more like it.

Actually, I did a good morning’s work, solving a couple of issues with timelines, and almost managed my 1,500-word target. Then I went for a good walk, even though it hurt a little and it was rather laborious. This is put down to it being chilly and rather humid. Then I went home, called Mrs. Ottawacker and wrote some more. Then I made the first of several mistakes.

I noticed a half-finished litre of beer in the fridge and wondered if it would improve the fluidity of my prose being inside me rather than inside the fridge. It didn’t. What it did do, was send me over the road to Chambao Beach, where I thought a change of environment would help. It didn’t. Instead, I got into a long, meaningful conversation with Fran about the state of his love life. His, you will be unsurprised to learn, is significantly better than mine (even accounting for the fact my wife is 6,000 km away). This depressed me so much, he offered me a glass of wine. This didn’t help the fluidity of my prose either, but it did make me hungry, so I had another glass of wine while he was making langostinas pil-pil.

Of course, while I had the aforementioned langostinas pil-pil, I had to see whether another glass of wine would help quell the fire in my mouth. It certainly helped. By this time it was 8.45pm and I just had time to head over to Pals to see Liverpool’s almost certain defeat against Napoli in the Champions League. And of course, I had to have a couple of drinks while I was there.

Having been astounded by a good performance and victory against arguably Europe’s most in-form side, I rushed back to Fran’s, calling Ottawacker Jr. to tell him the score as I went, and celebrated with a couple of digestifs. Then, announcing to all and sundry how much I loved Day of the Dead, even though nothing had seemed to happen, I went home to sleep the sleep of the justly inebriated,