HANGOVER CITY

It is Saturday morning.  Normally I am up and about, teaching and delivering children left, right and centre.  Instead I am with my two brothers and my mother and hungover after a night of extreme drinking.

My mother and I went to see my father in hospital in the afternoon.  He looks like a finger puppet.  It’s definitely his head, but he appears to be attached to a body that has all but disappeared.  Vanished.  Just something vaguely going on with lots of wires attached under a pair of pyjamas that make him look like a small boy wearing his father’s PJ’s.  He’s in a loud and smelly ward.  I tried to hold my breath for two hours but it wasn’t easy.  Nearly passed out.  Had to leave. Anyway, the good news is that he is eating again post op and it all seems to be heading in the right direction.  Phew.

My brothers arrived about 9.30pm after drinking the train out of beer and then wine.  They then had to make do with strange concoctions involving whisky and vodka.  You can imagine then that by 1am when we had all consumed FAR too much wine, it all went a bit wrong.  Brother spilt wine, vomited, broke mother’s favourite glass, passed out on sofa and then my other brother and I thought it would be really funny to pretend we were all sleeping together on the same sofa – I have lots of very silly pictures of the three of us (two of us only pretending to be loudly snoring) all tucked up under a blanket asleep on the sofa.  AND MY MOTHER kept thinking it was really funny to keep showing us her bottom.  Good grief.  Is it any wonder that I have no hope of ever improving.

Funny at the time.  Obviously.  Hilarious in fact.

Pathetic.