At almost 29 years of age, I'd hardly call myself "past it", but judging by the monstrous hangover I have been suffering with all day, my liver begs to differ. In fact, at precisely 6:40 am this morning when my alarm pierced my brain like a pneumatic drill, I think my body auto-piloted out of bed and in to the bathroom, pausing only to glance at my sleeping fiance and hating him for a brief second for having a job that doesn't start at 08:30. Last night we were out celebrating his best friend/best man's birthday and despite it being a "school night", we lapsed in to those days of youth when you didn't care if you got your 8 hours a night as your body could hack it. Unfortunately, those days were left behind with the Alcopops and the Rimmel Heather Shimmer lipstick. I should have resisted when the rounds of Sambuca started flying round, I should not have agreed to the tenth vodka and coke and I certainly should NOT have demolished a Tesco cheese twist and a donut on the way home. Crawling in to bed at 1:30 this morning, laughing and philosophising about our evening, the world of reality seemed a million miles away (not the pathetic several hours that it was). All day waves of nausea have washed over my stomach, teasing me with how much I can stand before the Tsunami of vomit overcomes it. Having managed to resist riding the crest of hurl all day, I am now settling down with a box of Jaffa Cakes and Big Brother. Worringly, I have also been having flashbacks of the titbits I was given of the potential best man's speech and I can't remember if I actually drunkenly dreamt it or not. Let's just say it will either be hilarious.... or horrendous.
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