On Not Having a Clue

"I'll have another mojito please Bovary"

"Coming right up Chatterley."

I woke up this morning covered in mud. My head was throbbing and I appear to have bruised my rib. A morning of toilet hugging began.

I'm no stranger to hangovers, but this one's a bit of a brute. What makes it worse is that I remember very little. Most of the night is a complete blank. In the few episodes I do recall I'm sitting on the sofa, making pleasant small talk with one of N's friends. However, it's unlikely that I continued in this vein for the rest of the night - in fact I know I didn't. I know this because I woke up to three texts telling me how 'awesome', 'on form' and 'sweaty' I was. These aren't adjectives you'd use to describe my usual, softly-spoken, 'I'm going to chat in the kitchen' party persona, so I imagine I was making a massive arse out of myself. N explained why I was covered in mud - in the 20 second walk from a cab to his front door I managed to fall in a ditch. This could also explain the rib. The Jack Daniels is accountable for the headache and toilet-hugging.

It's a horribly uncomfortable feeling this - I have absolutely no idea what I was doing and I know that in a few hours the photos will start appearing on Facebook. I'll have to wait until then to find out what level of foolishness my behaviour reached, and swiftly detag.