I have crawled into a hole in the ground, because it is dark and cool, but the light from the laptop screen is like a thousand suns. Yes, I have a hang-over and I’m hiding.

"The Hangover" (Portrait of Suzanne ...
“The Hangover” (Portrait of Suzanne Valadon) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Beforehand, it seemed like a good idea to schedule the morning train to where my mum lives. “We can take it easy at the pub, and then get up a little bit earlier and catch it.”

Right. When we came home at half past three in the morning, not very sober after a brilliant evening out celebrating Mark’s birthday, we had no thoughts about the train until it was time to get up and catch it.

The amount of whining one can put into twenty minutes of hurried morning showers and cleaning is amazing, and it is alarming how much the normal daylight of a normal mostly cloudy day can hurt. I now know how Nosferatu would feel if he happened to take a morning stroll by accident.

Anyway, after an interminable amount of minutes cramped together on the train we arrived, and there’s mum who takes one look at both of us, with a very sceptical look. “Do I need to hold that lecture about alcohol and youth?” No, mum. Whatever she said would be nothing like what alcohol was teaching this youth at that moment.

Now I’ve crawled away to find darkness and shade for a quick nap, because I really need it, but instead I’m writing this post and wasting my time. At three we have to be up and about because we’re going to dinner. Hopefully, the light will not be so stabby, and the day won’t be so rude, then. At least I can take a smug comfort that I’m not the worst off. While I was crawling and whining, a certain someone felt like crawling up in a foetal position to nurture a death wish.

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