I’m afraid I broke my new year’s resolution on Sunday. I’d vowed not to have a hangover for the whole of 2008, and I’d made it almost until October. But, following a very jolly mini dinner party at our house on Saturday night, which somewhat ill-advisedly featured not only wine but also cava, gin and tonics and limoncello, I found myself pinned to the bed by pain on Sunday morning, unable to move my arm from where it was flung melodramatically across my face.
I’m cursed with a propensity towards hangovers. Not the sort of “hangover” that most people complain of, which can be cured with a fry-up, a bit of fresh air, or even (horrors) a drink. Not the sort which allows you to make it into work and groan at your desk all day. If this is your definition of a hangover, my friend, I spit in your face congratulate you.
My hangovers leave me bed-bound and quivering, with pain mushrooming in my skull and pins in my eyes and bile in my throat. My hangovers send me staggering to the bathroom to retch forlornly, sometimes at a rate of once every 20 minutes until 8pm at night. I am not joking. I can’t watch Saturday Kitchen, let alone face a fried breakfast, as even the mention, even the THOUGHT of food, or in fact water, makes me spin.
Until this year, I’d be struck down with one of these monster hangovers once every two months or so. I’m not a big drinker, in fact I would put money on the fact that when I go out (or stay in), I put away fewer glasses than anyone else I know, apart from my Dad, who is a yogi-Buddhist type person and doesn’t drink. I generally don’t have more than four drinks, and I always stop before midnight, even if I stay up to 4am. But for some reason, like Chinese people, or so I’ve read, I’m afflicted with not being able to take my booze, at least not the morning after.
Throughout 2008 I’ve been extra-vigilant over what I’m drinking, the quantity and, v importantly, the variety of alchoholic tipples I’ve consumed in any given night. I’ve enjoyed the fact that my Sundays have not been ruined by the feeling that I really am going to die, and this can’t possible be a hangover and must be an inoperable brain tumour or some other horror.
But, almost on the verge of my 28th birthday (2nd October, folks), I found myself once again in the embarassing teenager-style predicament of being bed-bound by a hangover. Oh limoncello, why didst thou forsake me?
However, I must have learned something, or otherwise my liver must appreciate my (relative) restraint of late, because I didn’t vomit, and I managed to drag myself out of bed before noon. I managed to eat poached eggs, to trail around the ‘hood with Dear Friend Mim soaking up the sunshine (yes, very funny, Weather. I see what you did there, with your pissing it down for months, then, on the last official day of summer, your rolling out of the sun-soaked Indian summer thing), and to eat a further packet of Space Raiders, and finally, a pie. I even managed to clamber into my trackie bottoms and bash out a few spins in front of my hula hoop workour DVD in the evening.
And that, I’m sure you’ll agree, is a successful Sunday.