Banging headache


After a month of not drinking very much, I am suffering. Specifically suffering from the end of the month of not drinking very much. Last night. Ow. And this could be a case of the mythical bad pint, but is it possible that Lemsip Max and beer might result in a hangover that felt like whisky, white wine, 20 Marlboro and a couple of Sambucas, instead of the large cheese sandwich before three pints of Guinness that were in fact consumed? Strong doses of ‘lemon’-flavoured paracetamol, then alcohol. Hmm. If I were my liver, I’d have flattened me too. Gracious heavens I felt like nauseated death until mid afternoon. It was like New Year’s Day 2003, the one of which we do not speak.

I’m wondering whether cold remedies aren’t a good deal stronger than we realise – I recall doing myself a mischief (both ends, ifyergetmydrift) after wellying into Day/Night Nurse for two days. That was 15 years ago, and I haven’t touched either since.

As I claw my way back to steady, sundry thumps and bangs are floating up the stairs. Below me, a flatmate is assembling Ikea shelves. She’s female, and prone to reading instructions (but only after a hammer had been employed enthusiastically, before faltering, then ceasing, a sequence that smacked of self-doubt from two doors away. The hammer was a surprise, actually. I thought Ikea was all about Allen keys). I have retreated – yes, hidden, if you must – until the bookshelves are complete. One set has taken an hour, there are three more to go. I’m setting my expression to awestruck admiration – which is actually how I feel, but today my face seems permanently at bluergh-und-whimper.


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