Tea for One (part one)

Here's a cheeky bit of fiction for you all. I say a bit, it's a three parter of almost five thousand words. Sorry to break character, but I hate hate hate the first paragraph of this, so any suggestions for improvement would be appreciated. Or you, know, just flatter me and say you like it.

Tea for One

I've been drinking for four days. That's a lie. Sort of. I don't know. I've never had a very good memory. Sometimes I go completely teatotal but it doesn't usually last longer than half an hour. Besides, I've never been able to have more four or five cups before the sugar starts getting to me and I start to feel sick. But no, I am not an alcoholic. Not a proper one anyway. I often get so drunk that I lie on the floor of an appalling nightclub toilet cubicle vomiting and screaming and writhing in other people's piss, but at least it's my own vomit. But that is socially acceptable; it's part of our culture, like Shakespeare and the Royal wedding and Morris dancing. Anyway, it only happened once. I usually keep my vomit to sinks, bushes, toilets, bus stops, bus seats and sometimes my own lap. Sometimes someone else's lap. They usually mind, but I eat well. And by well I mean cheaply.

Drugs. I did drugs twice. The first time was unremarkable; a slight dizziness and a vague feeling that someone was after me with a chap-stick. The second time, however, I lay on the floor of my bathroom dabbing my forehead with a wet flannel because I thought my face was burning and worrying about what I would do if my hair caught fire. I would scream and put the flannel on my head of course. But what if the flannel I was dabbing my face with was not wet with water but wet with petrol, and Thames Water has been taken over by Shell in a controversial takeover bid. They now had complete control over my water and my sewage, and they were pumping petrol through our taps and burning our waste in an attempt to combat global warming so that they could win a Nobel peace prize or something. Anyway, the flannel had petrol on it and now my face was on fire. I was in unbearable agony. My face was melting. I had lost my eyebrows and half of my fringe. I plunged my face into the bath but it was filled with petrol! I turn the shower on and it releases more petrol! My bathroom became flooded with petrol! Petrol everywhere!

Thankfully the heat was internal and the fire imaginary and my water pipes weren't filled with petrol but with water, so a nasty situation was luckily avoided. There's not a day that goes by when I don't thank Thames Water for the efficient service that they provide. Ever since that day when they saved my face from a terrible fire with a damp flannel I have left a Christmas hamper outside their head office every Christmas with an extensive assortment of jams and chutneys and shortbread and a small teddy bear wearing tartan clothing. It has been six months since the incident and there hasn't been a Christmas yet, but my mind is resolved. I'm thinking about going to the fair and winning a massive teddy bear for them too on ring-a-duck or throw-a-dart or shoot-a-thing but I have never been any good at ringing, throwing, shooting or any other verbs for that matter except sleeping and masturbating, but they don't offer any stuffed animals for excessive masturbation. Fair gypsies probably don't want to attract that sort of customer to their humble establishments. So anyway Thames Water will probably have to make do without a stuffed bear with a heart-shaped cushion reading “I WUV U” in cloying capitals. The hamper is enough. Hopefully I can get one with apricot jam, because it's a good flavour and it is often overlooked by the more mediocre compilers of Christmas hampers. What a bleak world we live in where apricot jam is not universally appreciated.

Anyway, the real reason I want to get them a hamper is not because they saved my eyebrows from a fire with a damp flannel. You didn't believe that did you? And it's not because they refused to accept a takeover bid from Shell, but even if they had accepted, Shell would probably have the business acumen to fill their pipes with water or jelly or something other than petrol. They've built a successful business and I'm sure they know the difference between those times when people do want petrol and those times when they definitely do not. No, the real reason (and I probably didn't make this up, I can't remember) is because one day my water stopped working and someone sent over the love of my life to fix it.