Monday, September 27, 2004
Stranger Takes A Trip
These days I hardly ever have hangovers. Perhaps it’s down to the quality of the upmarket plonk I choose to get pissed on, but the morning after the night before I'll usually wake up, if not quite as fresh as a daisy, at least more chipper than is proper for a pickled pansy my age. And even back in my old all-night-bender daze, I was always the one who never suffered the after-effects, very visibly a stranger to the comedown blues.
So yesterday shouldn't have been a problem, when a planned Sunday lunch down the local spiralled so deliciously out of control that all sense of time or dignity was lost, and we ended up past chucking-out time, spilling the Absolut while discussing the individual merits of the French rugby team. Which meant, of course, that none of the Useful, Important or Improving Things I had been putting off for ages and had lined up for the latter part of the day got ticked off on the to-do list. Not one. Why, I didn't even floss my teeth before passing out.
And that is why today I have been caught generally grumping around and hating myself, doing a passable impression of a bloodhound in a K-hole, eyes heavy and drooping, and with the combined forces of the Grimethorpe Colliery Brass Band and the Edinburgh Military Tattoo playing and marching back and forth inside my head.
Hangovers I can handle, my dears, it's the old guilt trip that gets me every time.