My blog yesterday spoke about my self inflicted hangover. Cures suggested by some of my lovely readers included a full fry up, aspirin, something salty (Pickled Onion Monster Munch was my suggestion) and milk thistle (not sure I'd like to milk a thistle, that's gotta hurt, and where are the thistle's nipples anyway?)
So, I took the obligatory paracetamol, and rallied sufficiently to take the husband down to collect the abandoned car. Feeling optimistic having completed this task without getting the husband to pull over into a layby, I then decided to go and do the weekly shop. This was done efficiently and quickly (even though I had to get into my driver's seat via the passenger door after some twit parked their car so close to mine that you couldn't have got a fag paper between us.
I'd like you to picture the scene as this 53 year old who is as supple as a breeze block, straddled her Mini's centre armrest, narrowly avoiding jamming her left knee in the air vent, her head wedged against the rear view mirror and her legs at a 45 degree angle with a gear stick precariously pointing North. Eventually dropping my derriere into my driver's seat, I was sweating like a horse, and the language was riper than a good Camembert. I did debate waiting till the offending wassack returned to their car, but decided I was better than that. And anyway, I had a lovely tub of slowly melting rum and raisin on the back seat, so didn't really have time to hang around.
Driving home, I called my best friend Mrs S to see if she fancied a walk. She was grounded though, as she had painting to do.
'Let me drop my shopping off and I'll come and give you a hand', I offered.
Fast forward an hour and I'm slapping on the eggshell, managing to get almost all of it onto the walls. Mrs S, who isn't as careful as me with the roller, bore a striking resemblance to a badly graffitied wall, and as the hours went by, my hangover, which had been quietly snoozing by the paint splattered step ladder, came back with a vengeance just as Mrs S got the white spirit out to remedy the over exuberant rolling. It was at this point that a rapid retreat was made and I raced home for some one-to-one time with my en suite.
By yesterday evening, I was feeling much better, and the husband took me to see Despicable 3 at the cinema. Going to a kids' film with no kids is slightly bizarre, as they didn't laugh when we did. But it was bloody brilliant, and so lovely to end the day with a laugh and a tub of mint choc chip.