The smell was overwhelming. Rank. The smell of decay. Body odour. Oestrogen and testosterone, fighting for supremacy amidst the fake pheremones sprayed onto good foot dancing garb. An olfactory confusion. By the time my meal was delivered, I could hardly catch a breath, as I tried to view the punters. My jetlag dementia. The fish yielded to my fork with a sludgy consistency, fried. The taste was akin to brushing your teeth and then having a pint of strong ale. Numbing and noisome. Tasting colours. The synaesthesia of sleep deprivation and a few weak beers. Almost hallucinatory. Faces looked through me to the banquette behind me. Invisible to the naked, drunken eyes. Rapidly fading man. Disintegration. I gave myself a literal shake and headed to the gent. Water to face avoiding the mirror. No desire to see the ravages.
The Sunday night crowd looked sad and despairing. Monday work sirens were calling. Romantic couplings yet seeded on Saturday had to be sated. Men circled women, circled men and the ellipsis continued. I couldn't force down the fodder at my table. Out on the street, the rising bile and fatigue hit me. On my knees, throwing a rainbow of vomitus onto a tarmac welcome mat. The slow stagger to the New Amsterdam hotel was a treacle walking marathon. The room undulated as I slow faded onto the waiting mattress, lights blazing, lights out. Neon catching my peripherals as consciousness greyed out. A mess of arrivals.