I woke Sunday morning sore all over.

I probably would have woken up sore on Saturday morning, had I actually woken up sober, or in the morning. I think I woke up in much the same state as I went to sleep, except that it was daylight. Searing daylight. My memory of the night before is ragged and largely discontinuous. Oh hold on... am I thinking of the current state of the hedges outside the Brisbane Convention Centre?

It started all started at the Belgium Beer Cafe. The concept of which seems to be that the only thing larger than the glass the beer comes in is the hole the very same purchase made in your funds for the evening. The ATM there even gets in on the fun by treating the number you enter as your withdrawal amount as more of a guideline than an actual command.

After each drinking a share of beers that taste like things other than beers, we headed to a Korean restaurant and placed an order for a most unusual of the dishes on the menu: chicken, right, but get this, it had been deep fried. Pretty out there dish, to be honest. I mean, who comes up with that shit?

Which the wacky Asian cuisine out of the way, we headed adjacent to the empty bar, proceeded to get a round of drinks. Sometime later the bartender arrived. With the drinks flowing freely (and freely) and Matt having arrived, it got a lot more rowdy. Whatever happened beyond this point is recalled only on what was photographed and recorded on mobile phones, and on CCTV. Tales were told of cars, and of trips to the States and Japan, and a few light-hearted, if terribly slurred, insults were thrown at people not present, and more than a few at those who were present or at the bar (within earshot).

At some point the decision was made to leave, I'm not clear who made the decision, bar staff, members of the party or officers of the law, but we found ourselves making the trek back to South Brisbane. The trip was punctuated with hedging, laughable feats of strength and rambling conversations with probably dangerous strangers, in contrast with the SMSes sent to people not out that night, which were punctuated only with auto-corrected swear words.

I woke the next morning, with waves of nausea crashing down on me like it was Mother Nature taking revenge for the garden torment of the night before. I stumbled to the bathroom, prepared for the worst, but the post-modernity of the bathroom ensemble strangely and almost immediately settled my guts. It was unlikely any painting of my own would have blended with the style, anyway.

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