Sunday, 9 October 2011

On the wagon

Is it my age? Last night I ingested less booze than most people would have on a normal week night. And yet I have struggled through what appear to be appalling hangover symptoms all day. To the extent that my boss sent me home from the pub because I was green, sweaty, puking and a general embarrassing mess.

I have that itchy paranoid restless weirdness that comes with a monster hangover. And yet one glass of red wine, a couple of gins and a bit of rum really shouldn't have done that to me. N'est ce pas? That's not normal to get sick from that. It just doesn't happen.

I know people - lots of people actually. Many, many people. Possibly hundreds - who can happily consume at least three times that amount, turn up for work and be absolutely fine. How is it that I am a gibbering wreck? I mean I know I have ten years on some of them, but not all of them I don't.
A couple of them are almost as old as me.

This may sound like a whinging post (shut up) but it's also my itchy, paranoid attempt to analyse what exactly happened to my alcohol tolerance. Last time I was dumped I was going through at least a bottle of red wine a day with no particularly dire consequences.

Actually perhaps it was the extremely ill advised croque monsieur before going to work which, to be fair, may have been the thing that pushed my stomach over the edge. A plate full of bechamel sauce when your guts are doing somersaults probably isn't the best thing. Eugh. Greasy cheese and ham. Would you excuse me for a second? I just have to barf again.

But I feel like a twat. I'm too old to get sick from alcohol. I'm too old to get sent home from work.

I'm going to give it up. From now until Christmas I'm just not going to drink at all.

Fact.

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