Anyone that reads my blog posts or emails knows that I like to use the humble aside in a pair of parentheses (I've never really been able to think, speak or listen in straight lines).
Today I'm not thinking (when you drink your share of four bottles of red wine and follow through with a chilli-vodka chaser (with not even a sideways glance at a glass of water), there's absolutely nothing you can do but lie in bed with the curtains closed, hurling into a bucket periodically and groaning while your body does a wee bit of damage control. I'm up now, and in front of the computer, but only just. Best Beloved, who has been valiantly fighting a grin behind his fragile facade of sympathy (having been the designated driver and omitted to watch my fluid intake), tells me I'll feel a lot better tomorrow. But I know those braincells aren't coming back. No amount of fluid, chicken soup and custard is going to regenerate this tired old noggin. Or those wasted hours. Not even able to read! That's what bugs me the most).