Anyone who has lived with me would probably attest to this fact: I can be very very silly. What possessed me to get so drunk the night before a 26 hour journey? Am such a fucking moron.
Had lazy day yesterday, and then went and met Rox at Charing Cross. I should have known the direction my evening was taking when she came back to the table with a bottle of merlot and two glasses, saying 'obviously, we will drink a bottle, not much point in buying by the glass'. Several hours then disappeared as we gossiped and giggled, fortified only by a bowl of tasteless olives. (That Rox is a chancer, she looks like butter wouldn't melt but I know the truth.) Cousin Sam then came and met us and we had several more pints, and the next thing it was 11, and I was gliding my way back to Victoria, pissed as a pissed thing.
Suffice to say, am feeling rather delicate this morning and have just had lucozade. Presently am sitting in a departure lounge of LHR T4, contemplating a large muffin from Costas and how much I am going to sleep once I get seat number 55K.