You can say what you like, but this ain’t no fucking hangover.
If I do feel a little out of sorts after a feed of pints, a good night’s sleep or a massive fry-up or a bottle of whiskey usually sorts everything out.
I had a fairly good night’s sleep, apart from some very strange nightmares. The bottle of whiskey was enjoyable but ineffectual. The stomach couldn’t take a fry-up. And I am still feeling like I have been snogged by Mary Harney – aching all over; breaking out into sweats for no reason and generally feeling rotten.
I fucking hate being like this. I can’t tell Herself because she goes all motherly and fusses over me, insisting I take things easy and giving me loads of strange potions to drink. If there is one thing I despise in life it is being fussed over. I hate sympathy. I hate being mothered.
The brain is kind of fuggy too. As a result, I won’t be writing anything today, so you’ll just have to manage without me.
I’m off now to try another bottle of whiskey.
I know it won’t cure whatever the fuck I have, but who gives a shit?
It’s a damned good excuse.