A rambling letter from Monday Chucky

Day 32. 69 pages, 33,697 words. Okay, back to work. Book 1 has officially and thoroughly overtaken book 2.

Dear Last Tuesday Chucky,

I was puzzled by your note, which seems to have gotten lost in the post and ended up at my door, but I saw that it was from the heart and deserved some sort of response.

I can tell you, from what I understand and what I have also received from the man himself, that Saturday Chucky did alright. He sent me a note to that effect (I won’t go into detail but the basic summary was “tired, stinkin’ a little bit of Cuban cigars, but otherwise okay”), and since both I and Sunday Chucky were feeling pretty good, we can take it that Saturday Chucky opted to take the high road even if he possibly missed your plea.

All in all, I think the Saturday deal went down well. Out of there by about midnight, a quick trip back to perform a bagpipe solo for the birthday boy (who also did fabulously well, despite a few compromising photographs and neck-holds and way too many hugs, all in all it was a very responsible and appropriate performance[1]), a polite yet firm refusal of a second half-tumbler-full of prairie dog. And yes, while there were fine Havana combustibles combusted, and a fair number of ring-pulls in the pocket the next morning, it was all good.

[1] I have a theory about 30th Birthdays, if you’ll indulge me. I don’t think it is in any way an indicator of age or responsibility, so much as the 30th being one of the first Big Parties to which the birthday boy or girl is the for-reals guest of honour. You might think this is true of every birthday, but it’s really not. Most birthdays, depending on the trouble you go to in arranging and catering and booking venues, you’re really just another guest – and one who is expected to party that much harder than everyone else. Especially if you’re part of a drinking culture. Now, for the 30th, you’re more likely to have a wider circle of attending family and friends than other birthdays, you’re expected to be a “host” as well as a “päivänsankari”, and the general mood is more statesmanlike than earlier boozefests. Or maybe that’s just how it rolls in my family.

It was just as well it was all good, in fact, because I have it on good authority that Saturday Toop was a little bit of a party animal herself. Something about sleeping from eight until midnight, then waking up and thinking it was breakfast time, and refusing to go back to sleep until considerable periods of time were spent rocking her back and forth, then changing her poopy nappy, then feeding her a mass quantity of porridge and fruit mush. All of which I am reliably informed Really Fucking Early Sunday Chucky had to take care of, and which I dare say he took care of like a boss.

So. Your missive was appreciated, and your concerns – while valid – turned out to be wholly unfounded. Saturday Chucky pulled it off.

I don’t think for a second that it was as easy as Last Monday Chucky or even Last Wednesday Chucky thought it would be, especially once the Boston Mules and the Dirty Tea (Done Dirt Cheap)[2] started to enter the equation, but we did it.

[2] Sparkling wine (cider will do in a pinch), iced tea and a dash of Boston Mule. New drink for Bar Äijä’s. I’m so, so sorry.

Next step is doing it again next time.

Cave Pratum Canem

I don’t think anyone has really gone to the trouble of appreciating the headstone I made for the birthday invitation, by the way.

Sincerely,

Monday Chucky

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This entry was posted in Hatboy's Nuggets of Crispy-Fried Wisdom, The Chucky Report and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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