…When your hangover lasts the whole of Sunday.
It’s very distressing. Admittedly, we did hit the pub at about noon on Saturday and kept going until…well, I vaguely remember D and I watching Wallander on BBC4 which is on between nine and ten thirty, although I couldn’t tell you whodunnit. And we were definitely drinking a bottle of wine while we did so.
But I am not a sufferer of hangovers in general. A cup of tea, something with butter on it and I’m sorted out. Not so this weekend. I spent most of Sunday slumped in a pathetic heap either on the bed or the sofa. I didn’t get dressed. I couldn’t face much by way of food (this is generally the prime indication that all is not well. Most illnesses and traumas in my life, I eat my way through.)
I hate to say it, but perhaps my body is telling me that it is time to quit the binge drinking. A pint or two of cider in a sunny pub garden, or a tinkling gin and tonic as the clock strikes six, or even a glass of wine or three with a meal – all of these things are fine, but just not in rapid succession throughout the course of a single day.
This, of course, can only be good news for both my liver and my waistline.
But, oh. It’s yet another nail in the coffin of my fast receding youth. Along with the grey hairs I keep stumbling across and the fact that I can’t bear to listen to Radio 1 anymore. And, and, (I’ve just re-read my opening paragraph) the fact that on a Saturday night, in an advanced state of inebriation, I chose to go home, watch a subtitled Scandanavian police drama and eat a toasted teacake.