It is 5pm. Day clouded by noxious hangover. Unable to function. Must learn not to try and ingest same amount of red wine as M. This morning, unable to declare anything, I whispered pathetically “I am never drinking again”. Even in my state of heavily advanced woe, I knew that was possibly not wholly realistic. So after I’d recovered from stringing that amount of words together, I revised it to “I am not drinking alcohol [shudder, shudder] for three months.” Why three months? At the time, it seemed serious amount of time, without being absolutely ridiculous?
Having since drunk four cups of hot water with ginger in it and eaten my hangover staple, a bowl of brown rice (it took me five hours to gain that sort of courage) I am still feeling crap enough to want to run with the idea. I thought that if I published it online before I make it back to everyday reality, where the crutch that is alcohol helps us to look at our faux wood surrounds and think “Brushbox!” and “Silky Oak!” I would not be so likely to falter. Ohhh. My head.
We merely went to my dad’s for lunch and dinner, and to visit his ailing houseguest. Began with Windy Peak Pinot. Ended with Coopers. In between, M climbed a very large tree and sawed two bits off the top of it. We finished up reading about our holiday on [miaow] this time last year, and giggling – only realising in the (oh so) harsh light of day that we probably kept T from sleeping, the night before his first go at chemotherapy. Once I realised that, my whole body continued to ache, but more in a I-deserve-this-pain kind of way. Of course, he could have always bashed on the wall to tell us to shut up, but still…
Red wine is the enemy. Repeat after me. RED. WINE. IS. THE. ENEMY. ENEMY. ENEMY. E.N.E.M.Y