I got veh, veh drunk on Friday night.
On my 30th birthtday (nearly six years ago now) it was like some switch was flicked, which meant that I went from being able to drink endless pints of snakebite/tequilla slammers/vodka based cocktails and cheap wine… all on the same night… MIDWEEK… NO hangover, to being able to handle nothing stronger than a small glass of Pinot Grigio before falling off my bar stool and needing a full bank-holiday weekend to recouperate.
However, I woke up on Saturday with only a slightly muzzy head. This is an excellent result hangover-wise. I celebrated by staying in my pyjamas all morning eating runny boiled eggs and soldiers and delighting in watching lots of very posh people with lots of money and very little taste try and out-hat eachother at the Royal Wedding. (I did quite like Camilla’s headgear though). Good luck to them!
Call me old-fashioned, but I preferred the first wedding. Admittedly I was only 12 years old at the time (hooray – no hangover then)! We got a day off school and the whole street had a party! You couldn’t buy red, white or blue crepe paper for love or money for the whole of the summer of ’81 – I think ours was the only street party with green and yellow bunting! Everything, every bit of tat and crap you can imagine had ‘Charles and Di’ tattooed across it. We had C+D mugs and coins given to us at school and my Mum splashed out on a C+D tea-towel and a C+D wipe-clean apron. I’m begging for her to leave them to me in her will – so kitch!
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