write this post currently coming out of a gruesome hangover; a hangover that started on Sunday morning with me waking up in a tent, on the south coast of England, having used a crushed can of Carling as a pillow.
I have abandoned the usual historic post for this entry, as the epiphany for this post came to me pretty quickly after waking up, when my chicken kebab and accompanying stomach acid was finding a new porcelain home.
It was seven o’clock in the morning, the sun, whilst usually welcome to our shores, was piercing and determined to have me peel my eyelids open sooner than I had planned.
Within seconds of waking up, my memory was flooded with intermittent moments of the previous night, and my head felt like someone had injected a colony of angry wasps into it.
My motivation for rising early was given a further boost when the familiar feeling of sickness was brought to my attention, so off I trotted.
It occurred to me, that at this moment in time, I was good for nothing. If I was a father I would be setting one hell of an example for my children; barely able to look after myself, let alone any dependants. A question popped into my head.
How do people with hangovers look after their kids?
I have no idea how they do it, and I admit, I have some admiration for those who do. Many of my friends state that they just get on with it, some even admitting that the responsibility of parenting is something of a cure.
The good news is that as I age, the more time I need to recover, but, the more sensible I am. My university days are behind me, and as a wiser man, it is very rare that I land on the idea of a flaming sambuca as a good one. It is only the very special occasion (this weekend’s being a stag do) where I whole-heartily let go and have a skinful.
I have tried the hangover childcare routine once. A friend’s 40th resulted in a very late night, and my wife agreed to look after said 40 year old’s young daughter. In an overly generous, but un-considered stupor I agreed to be on breakfast duty, doing a lousy job of convincing my wife that ‘I was fine’ and ‘I had barely touched a drop’.
The morning after, and with the mother of all hangovers, I took our young guest down stairs, with the promise that anything her imagination could craft would be available for breakfast.