As cars park up for the night,
groups stagger stupidly past my window.
I watch the terrible telly.
sitting in the darkness, in the shadow.

Crowds crawling, cackling and chatting,
fueled on beer, wine or snakebite,
girls in groups drinking alco-pops,
all add to the tune of Saturday night.

But as this all passes by my flat,
shouted words and an occasional fight.
I am glad of my fortress on Saturday night,
where I am safe and out of sight.

As Sunday morning raises the dead,
people waking up in the wrong bed.
I awake fresh faced and alive,
able and legal for a Sunday drive.
But, the revelers are regretful
not wanting to drink again,
their bodies aching and heads in pain.
Bruises and scars from that drunken fight,
black eyes being shaded from the light.
walking like zombies, faces of white,
wishing they stayed in all night.

Wallets empty, pay cheques spent.
They drank a lot more than they meant.
Memory fuzzy, but with tiny flash-backs,
was there sambukas, tequilas and cognacs?
Anonymous one night stands and drunken snogs,
fumbles in the cubicles of the girls bogs.
Binge drinking at its very best,
it all goes on outside my nest.
It all goes on on a Saturday night,
but I hide inside – hiding – out of sight.