Return to Gin Lane

The Memsahib is away for the weekend, causing trouble in the midlands with a couple of cronies. I had intended, gentle reader, to take advantage of her absence and to devote myself to writing. All I had to do was toddle into town and go to Taylor's on Jermyn Street for a new razor and some moustache wax. The rest of the weekend could be devoted to the service of my muse.

Jermyn Street is, however, a place of great temptation for Springheel. I affirm now, with you as my witnesseses, that my intention was simply to purchase a razor and some moustache wax. Two hours later, I found myself returning home with a silk scarf, three shirts, a tattershall waistcoat and over a hundred quid's worth of shaving products. I am putty in their hands, damn them.

The slight extension of my shopping trip was no significant problem. But it was a sign that I foolishly ignored. I failed to interpret its significance - viz that The Great Deceiver, the Prince of Lies, the Tempter himself was on my trail.

An innocuous offer by friends to cook me dinner last night was the second sign. On the face of it, there was no reason to be concerned. They are a married couple residing in furnished rooms in Dulwich. The husband possesses a splendid waxed moustache, the wife an admirable embonpoint. Granted, they have been intimately involved in a number of shockingly drunken incidents in my life, but otherwise, they are pillars of respectability.

I should have realised this was Satan's work the moment they offered not only to feed me but to visit Springheel Towers in order to do so. Foolishly, I just assumed that the Memsahib had bribed them to keep an eye on me. Would that this were true, gentle reader. It is clear to me now that my friends were in the employ, not of my helpmeet and partner in life...but of Beelzebub himself.

It started innocently enough. The husband is a fine cook (I often speculate that this is the result of his moustache. He looks like a very grand 19th century chef. Is there, I wonder, some sort of physiognomical determinism at work here?). He had produced a superb curry. I had pottered round the corner to the local Indian sweet shop and bought dessert. We drank champagne before the food.

Having started on champagne, we switched to a cheaper fizz for the rest of the evening, recognizing that the curry would prevent us from savouring the finer points of the beverage. This was, I believe, the last intelligent action that took place in the Springheel household last night.

Examining the evidence this morning, a terrible tale unfolded itself. Three people sat down to dine. Three bottles of fizz were drunk. At some point, we also consumed four bottles of beer and a litre of Port. This was capped by Sloe Gin, and (God help me) brandy... my best brandy. We clearly turned to this when the port was all gone. The evidence was all too clear.

I was able to prepare breakfast for my guests (who had, obviously, been in no state to go home) only because I was still very drunk. We were a subsdued, clumsy party. The bonhomie of the previous evening was muted. They asked me what I planned to do with the day. I explained that I had, at best, an hour or so before I began to sober up. I predicted the rest of the day would be spent lying on my bed, groaning and calling down the wrath of God upon myself for my folly.

And in this, Gentle Reader, I was absolutely correct.