The lunchtime after
July 8, 2007
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Oh my god I think I’ve put my back out again. Vast amounts of pain. Ouch. Can’t really walk. Lots of Nurofen. No chuffing idea how I did that. I mean, OK, I’ve spent the day clearing up but I was just sat there watching The West Wing and it all went horribly wrong (the back, not TWW. TWW doesn’t go horribly wrong until season six and Sorkin gets fired and More4’s only just started season three).
Anyway. Is there a word or phrase to describe not giving up drinking entirely, but stopping getting drunk? Drinking is lovely, beer is wonderful, and being drunk itself is sort of fun at the time even with the babbling and the falling over, but I’m sick of the aftermath (though the aftermath never involves actual sick. I haven’t been sick since I was about 12. Even the massive bout of food poisoning or virusy thing last January didn’t involve puking – though not for want of trying). It’s the reading of the phone’s outbox to see who I texted incomprehensible tosh to, the deleting of random blog posts *ahem* (seriously, I shouldn’t be trusted with grown-ups’ technology), the hideously dehydrated lips and hands (the skin on the end of my right thumb has actually cracked. It’s grim), the waking up really early even though I went to bed late and the desire to spend the day curled up under the duvet whimpering. And then finding things in weird places when I eventually do get out of bed that I don’t remember doing (why is the phone on the floor in the hallway? Why is there a fork in the bathroom? Where the hell did that plank of wood come from and why is it under the bed?).
Now all I need to do is work out a way to calculate the point where I go from ‘happily pissed and a bit loud’ to ‘motherfucking trolleyed’. Aye, there’s the rub.
Ooo, Heroes is coming to BBC2. Some SF geekery to see me through the summer…