Monday Aftermath

Last night I got really drunk.

So much so, that even yesterday’s tiny blog entry took me nearly an hour to write after I arrived home. Forget the idea of an average wpm, my typing was down to about one character every ten seconds. Which then had to be deleted as it was wrong. There’s nothing worse than trying to type after a vat of wine. Oh, wait – two things, actually. Firstly, the horrible realisation when you wake up in the morning that you’re still wasted. Secondly, the fact that you feel unbelievably awful. So bad, in fact, that even though you’ve got ready for work, put your coat on, and have your laptop case in hand, you can’t go through the front door. You realise that going to the office would actually be a massive mistake. Not only because you can’t legally drive in the state you’re in, not only because you look like a bleary-eyed tramp, but because you just know that you’d never, ever have a hope of getting anything productive done, and that just being there, feeling as you do, would be the kind of slow torture that only the Bush-Cheney regime could possibly authorise. Further reminders of your stupidity come in being able to taste nothing but alcohol in your mouth, no matter how much industrial-strength mouthwash you down to try to get rid of it.

What to do, then? Phone the office and make up some excuse? “Yeah, I’m feeling really ill, I think I’m coming down with something, which’ll mysteriously be resolved after a couple more hours’ sleep…” Genius! Except, of course, when your wife works in the same office as you and knows that the real reason you’re not there is because you’re destroyed. And except when you were actually round at your boss’s house the night before, drinking her wine, and therefore she could take a good old stab at the truth, too.

I therefore did the decent thing and decided to ‘fess up. I rang my wife and admitted, to much laughter, that I was physically incapable of coming in. The phone was passed to my boss, who luckily found the situation hilarious. After a small bout of ritual humiliation, the call ended and I was able to lie on the sofa, blanket over me, waiting to die. Anyone in the room with me would have known the extent of how bad I was – I didn’t turn the telly on, and didn’t listen to my iPod either. Instead I just shut my eyes and went out like a light.

I’m still feeling rubbish now. And incredibly tired. All in all, I’m never drinking again.

Yeah, that’ll last.

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