Written on 22 March 2019
Gretchin
This guy. This fucking guy. What was I thinking? He's sat in front of me, having his gushing head wound tended to, handcuffed to the ambulance, no trousers. It's 5pm for fucks sake. What was I thinking?
“Gretchin, why'd you take ma troosers?”
“Why are you talking in a Scottish accent?”
The paramedic and policeman jump back as he vomits again. I'm not quick enough, and much of the vomit covers the open toed heels I spent £70 on especially for this fucking wedding.
“Why am I usher? I didn't usher? Tim mad?”
“No Pete he’s fucking thrilled with you.”
“Oh good.”
He puts his head against the side of the ambulance and closes his eyes. The police need a statement from me, so I explain where we left him. They tell me he stole a car whilst heavily intoxicated, and crashed it into a ditch. The vehicle then proceeded to explode. That's exactly how the policeman said it in his thick west country accent, like the poor bloody car had a choice in the matter.
“Probably not advisable to go back to the guest house tonight. The owners aren't too happy.”
“No shit.”
I think about dumping Pete then and there, before they took him to the police station, or the hospital or wherever, and hitching a ride into town, hopping on the first train home and changing my locks. But, fuck it, I now have to pretend to care about any of these people. Might as well have some fun.
I grab Pete by the hair before heading inside.
“You're a waste of skin.”
“Where's me troosers, Gretchin?”
I let his head droop, and go back inside to enjoy some stale, room temperature Eton mess.