I sit here, typing this, a breeze gently blowing the patio doors and the sun reflecting prettily off the water of the river outside. I can barely focus though.
It is with a heavy heart, a light wallet and the wisdom that I failed to listen to 25 hours ago that I can say this: Drinking is for fools.
I can’t remember the last time I managed to sleep in past 9am for any reason, though I’d hazard a guess that it was in a life before children, so that’ll be almost 13 years ago.
Today though I woke from my slumber at 1.30pm, and despite my best intentions to get up, eat and make the most of what was left of the day I instead ate, took some painkillers and went back to bed, only managing to get up at just gone 6pm.
A few quick lessons:
- Skipping dinner before going out is madness.
- The promise of food at a venue you’re going to may mean a few meatballs and some pitta bread rather than anything substantial.
- It is hard not to give your local Lib Dem candidate a rough ride when you are slightly tipsy and perceive him to be avoiding questions.
- Taking £40 out of the ATM doesn’t mean that you will only spend £40.
- Credit cards are evil. The drinks that the credit card buys when the £40 runs out are more evil.
I’ve no idea what time I got home, though apparently a friend says 2.30am, which is still remarkably early compared to some nights out.
I was sick in the toilet.
I have a vague memory of being sick elsewhere in the flat, but subsequent searches have not revealed any vomit anywhere. I’ve not ventured into the shared hallway, though my flatmate returned and didn’t comment on finding any sick there, which is a good thing.
The best course of action after a night like this is, of course, to go and do it again. Vague plans that I had to go the Chelmsford Fling at midday flew out of the window in a haze of drunken snoring, but rather than abandon it completely I’ve decided I will be fashionably late. 7 hours late to be precise.
First though, I need to go and get some food.