The Mother of All Hangovers

26. February 2007

I’m in a bad mood.* Not over anything in particular, just in general really. Just grumpy. I know it’s my full right but still I feel guilty about it. If I only had a proper reason I would feel a lot better about it. Sure the cold and snow has contributed to making me grumpy and Richie really has not helped matters with his increasingly hyperactive ways. But I can never be mad with him for very long. Although he has me effing and blinding and swearing to have him castrated all over again if I can only find a way, he is so truly cute once he realizes he has been bad I melt every time and he even gets extra carrots in the end.

But then my bad mood has nothing to do with Richie or even what time it is of the month. I think it might just be a case of too much of a good time that has backfired on me. It has happened before that I suddenly have found myself in a vile mood after having a particularly good time. The definite worst one I can remember was after a particularly good UK holiday a few years ago.

After a week and a half of nonstop fun with old friends normality hit me full on upon arrival back home. It was like life’s own hangover suddenly set in. It was like waking up after one of those nights when you have another 6 drinks after you have passed the official this-gets-me-drunk-limit. Or when you end up drinking pretty much everything you can get your hands on that contains alcohol and your system decides the only option is to shut down. Then you find yourself lying in bed in fetus position preying that it doesn’t get any worse. When it hurts to sleep I always know my body has had enough of me.

Being a bit of a control freak I am normally quite strict with my drinking rules, although I have been known on the odd occasion to break every single one in the course of a few hours, and subsequently suffer the consequences. The first one and above all the most important rule is: Never mix your drinks. I am sure anyone who is not a complete teetotal has a story of that time they ended up drinking a combination of pimms, baileys and apfelkorn or some other idiotic combination leading to an unpleasant and possibly very early end to the evening.

Mine was wine, vodka, a shot called Turkish (or actually quite a few of them…) followed by a lot more wine the year I turned 18. I ended up spending best part of the night throwing up over the edge of my friend’s snow covered terrace in minus 15 degrees –in a skirt- before my always considerate friend Petter decided I was probably about to freeze to death and came to look for me. He promptly took action, carried me inside and dropped me on the heated bathroom tiles where I spent the rest of the night involuntary watching all the boys release beer into the toilet next to my head. The only unfortunate thing, apart from this slightly unpleasant view, was that my body warmed up enough for my bodily functions to start functioning again, if you see what I mean. Luckily Petter was there to hold my hair, crack jokes on my behalf and answer my mobile when my mother rang to tell me that dad would pick me up at nine the next morning to take me to work at the stables.

After that I was quite religious about that one. Then follows no vodka after a similar episode a few years later. This I suspect was an age thing as my drinking career started off pretty much vodka only. Then comes no beer – too fattening and besides it has never to this date got me drunk, as every time I fail to drink more than 2 pints - no shots and last but not least I never have another drink after they have started to return on me. These rules, or guidelines, mean that nine out of ten times I end up on wine and wine only. This does occasionally cause odd looks and at times even protests from the person buying the round. Like the ones I got when I insisted on having a glass of chardonnay in a bowling hall just outside Basingstoke on a Monday afternoon.

“You can’t drink wine in here?!” my friend said with what sounded like real horror in his voice. Whereupon I calmly replied “Yes I can. It’s Basingstoke, surely anything goes?”

For those who are fortunate enough to not have had to suffer Basingstoke –it’s a dump. A complete and utter dump. The only classy thing that has been produced there in the last 300 years is Elisabeth Hurley. Oh and Burberry, but I suppose that has gone slightly downhill too after the chavs took a particular liking to it.

And just like wearing Burberry checked everything is not great, I have come to the conclusion that neither is having too much of a good time. Or at least you have to be prepared to suffer the consequences or say the hangover that follows.

*After I wrote this yesterday I woke up feeling like a new person today. So don’t tell me writing is not therapeutic... And just for the record, the good time was so worth it!