I don’t want to be teetotal, but I have had enough of the creeping panic, shame and guilt that comes with drinking. A spell without alcohol left me thoroughly restored
I woke on 16 February at noon. I immediately realised that the day was not favouring me and returned to bed, finally emerging like some evolutionary mistake at about 4.30pm. I creaked downstairs to deal with my phone’s chirpy pings: messages from my equally hungover bandmates who were deciding to brave the pub.
No! Absolutely not! Not today, Satan! This was officially my second hangover of the year, and I was not about to borrow from the future to pay for the present. Sure, there would have been a time when I would have dragged my sorry ass into some comfy clothes, then a taxi, and spent my Saturday night trying to forget that I had a hangover in the first place – but no more. Instead, it was straight to the sofa with a massive pot of tea and seemingly endless episodes of a series that I’m sure someone put a lot of work into, but that I can’t really remember. Then it was “Shall we order a Thai?”, and a snooze.
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