Last blow-out

It will become clear as this post proceeds why I'm writing it 'the afternoon afterwards'.

With three months of relative sensibility and abstinence on the cards and about to hit us, 30th June was never going to be a normal Saturday in the Sawyer household. Having said that, I didn't want to pump my weight up artificially, either, so a degree of moderation was in order.

Katie was out in the afternoon and evening; our friends Mike and Emma get married later this month and the hen afternoon/night was happening in Birmingham. I made myself useful, running a few errands and such, then lounged around the house. I ate a little, mainly things I'm not going to be allowed to eat from tomorrow onwards.

I got a couple of texts from Katie as the day progressed. This is normal Katie behaviour when beer is involved. The first few were reasonably sensible, in as much as they were written in English.

Then I got this one:



I'll freely admit, I'd had a beer myself by this point. But even I was struggling to make this out. So I texted her back something along the lines of "Pardon?". This was the reply I got:



A good point, almost Wildean in its brevity, I thought. It was then followed by:



Shortly after that a minicab delivered a pile of wreckage, vaguely resembling the sweet, innocent girl I married, to my door. Although she had eaten throughout the afternoon in a valiant attempt to soak up the alcohol, clearly more stodge was necessary so we raided the 'crap box', which is where we keep the crisps, Pringles, etc.

It's infallible logic like this that keeps 99% of kebab shops in business. I mean, would you really go for one if your hunger wasn't hop-fuelled?

I must admit that I was in no way completely blameless in all this, having gotten myself on the outside of some very nice Bavarian wheat beer and a good quantity of red wine by this point (followed up by some single malt, too, I think).

The next thing I remember and it's 6.00 in the morning. I'd fallen asleep around about midnight, but the problem is I'm still on the sofa, having a serious attack of something or other. My darling bride has left me to it several hours earlier, so I go upstairs to find her in the grip of Morpheus.

It's fair to say that the 'cutting down on the booze' aspect of the weight loss plan is not going to be too taxing right at this moment in time. Well, at least not considering the way we're both feeling at the moment. Another problem is that my traditional fatboy breakfast cure isn't a option any more.

I will shortly be doing the official weigh-in, once I can stand upright on the scales for long enough.