Saturday morning was not pretty. To be fair, neither was Saturday afternoon. I maintain that my condition had little to do with the infinity-plus-one beers consumed with the girls at The Beer Bistro on Friday night, and more to do with the fact that I slept really hot. Either that or someone poisoned me. Well ok let's not jumpt to that conclusion just yet. But whatever the root of the evil, my afflictions required me to bail on the two friends I was meant to see on Saturday - one was a coffee date and the other, belated birthday drinks. Tendering my apologies from my death bed, both girls replied that it was no big deal and I know that I'll catch up with them again soon. Phew.
But I did have to chuckle to myself in the midst of my turmoil, and think about Joshua. Often when we used to work together, Josh would come barrelling into my office complaining that he'd been sitting down so long he had contracted deep vein thrombosis. Or if we'd ever had a particularly heavy night drinking, Josh would bemoan that he'd come down with pancreatitis or a shrivelled liver or his kidneys had packed up. Despite his constant claims to be only 17 years old, he had the body of a corpse and it was always, and actually remains to this day, priceless.
And despite his flair for the dramatics, I'm starting to realise what Josh means when he says it takes him 3 days to get over a night out. I am wretched after even a mediocre night. 7.30pm the next night and I'm already yawning like an old lady. What's happening to me? Groan.