We live at the sharp end of several thousand years of written history. Over the millennia, countless scrolls, documents books, pamphlets and circulars have demonstrated the written word's ability to inspire, confound, amuse and amaze. In recent years, the Internet has made it possible for everyone to read great examples of writing everyday.This is not going to be one of them.
I am suffering. Oh, how I suffer. Watch me as I suffer! This is indeed the day after the night before. And the night before in question was the event of brother no. 1's wedding reception ceremony.
We had a great time. My brother and new sis-in-law looked radiantly happy at their newly arrived-at married status. I met a whole bunch of family members that I rarely see these days. We made vague commitments towards getting together with the Irish wing of the family at some point next year. And we got to eat a cake. That looked like a roulette wheel.
No, really:
In amongst it all, I may have had a cleansing ale or two. Katie also indulged. I suspect gin made an appearance, too. At 3am we decided to head back to our hotel room.
This morning at 8.30 I was in a whole world of pain. Thoughts moved very slowly through my addled mind. Fluids. Darkness. Quiet. Warmth. Those were my aims. The promise of a full English breakfast would normally be enough to bring me forth from the pit. But that was not the case this morning.
And, cruelly, the only coffee available in the hotel room was decaffeinated.
Later that morning, we'd showered and negotiated our way into clothing. I was still convinced that something had died in my mouth overnight. On our way to check out, we bumped into brother no. 1 and his new bride - who'd been with us during the witching hour the night before.
"You look exactly how we feel," he said. This was not meant as a compliment.
Is it a good thing, when settling up at the hotel reception, if more than 50% of the total cost is your bar bill from the previous night? That's not good, is it? Just checking.
As I sit here, Katie is attempting to sleep on the sofa. So far, the world is conspiring against her - first an RSPCA chugger going door-to-door, then a phone call from my blessed mother. "Just checking to see if you had a good time last night."
The evidence would suggest that we did.
3 comments:
So a greasy pork served in a dirty ashtray wouldn't be a welcome incentive?
I think I understand that.
That's pretty much the reason I avoid imbibing in alcohol at all. i have nothing against it other than it makes me feel like ass all of the next day. It generally isn't worth the 5 minutes I enjoy it.
I hope you and Katie feel better soon and forget how bad it made you feel so you can do it again. Soon.
The older I get, the worse my hangovers are. I could party like the proverbial rock star up until about the age of 30. From 31 to 35 things were touch and go on occasion; for every good morning there were two that started with my head in the toilet. I had to change my drinking pattern during these years: whatever alcohol I started the night with was it for the remainder of the evening. No mixing drinks. Now? Forget about it. A wild night at nearly 37 consists of two glasses of wine and a mild discomfort behind my eyes the following day. Meh to the aging process.
You forgot to mention something important in your post: what flavor was the cake?
An important but little-used saw is appropriate here: "Anything worth drinking, is worth drinking too much of."
Job well done!
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