Last night I consumed rather a lot of alcohol. It was at a hen night and, as is the tradition on such occasions, much wine was drunk and willy talking had. I struggle to remember the latter part of the night but am vaguely haunted by the image of myself smoking a cigarette, shoeless on a pavement somewhere in central London. Suffice to say it was not pretty.
Thanks to the excesses of the night I find myself in possession today of rather a painful hangover. For those of you reading who are clever enough not to drink, drink in moderation or pre-prepare with a couple of Nurofen before bedtime, common symptoms of a hangover include headaches, nausea, sensitivity to light, lethargy and thirst. In other words I smell like a Dickensian gin house and look like an aging prostitute with a 16-year-old crack habit. Take note: excessive drinking does not suit 35-year-old women.
Attempting to seek help for my current state I investigated various suggestions for cures for such a condition and was met by a number of recommendations including the better known ones: catching up on sleep, avoiding caffeine and replenishing your body with juices and water to the more obscure suggestions including the Puerto Rican method of rubbing your armpits with the juice of lemons and limes or the Icelandic’s cure involving boiled cabbage water and a spoonful of salt.
As helpful as all the above are, I am yet to be convinced as I believe there is one very relevant ailment that has been over looked – the overwhelming sense of horniness one feels after a hardcore drinking session; fuck me, I’m horny. No really, fuck me.
As if bloodshot eyes, B&H breath and shaky hands weren’t enough to contend with, all I can think about now is being bent over the nearest car bonnet by a total stranger on his way back from M&S on his lunch break. Why, if I wasn’t such a lady of modesty I’d be quite tempted to whip my knickers off for the first man (or woman, hey, hardcore hangovers don’t have favourites) that threw me a glance; ‘happy to help’ Miguel in Prêt this morning was lucky to escape alive, God love his latte serving bones.
Being horny when you are single, however, is sadly rather an unsatisfactory place to be and something which I will be promoting to the number one spot in my lists of reasons to have a boyfriend, just over TV fixing and long car journey driving. A litre of water and couple of aspirin are all well and good but it must be said, nothing sorts a headache out like a hair of the dog and a good seeing to.
(Not to be confused with a cuddle you understand, hell no, it’ll take more than 4 bottles of pinot grigio to get me to sacrifice my personal space, come back to me after a night of class A drugs and you might be getting somewhere.)
And it seems I am not alone, when discussing the subject with a number of friends, the general feeling on the subject was that of agreement. Sex and carbohydrates stood out as a priority after a heavy night on the tiles, which makes perfect sense to me; who needs Icelandic cabbage water when you can have a wank in the toilets of Gregg’s, a far more palatable experience to my mind, albeit slightly less socially considerate.
I would like to say I intend to have a hot bath and an early night, as would, no doubt, be recommended by most reputable nutritionists but actually my plan is to drag out this feeling for as long as possible and I am already making provisions for an extended wanking session punctuated with a number of croissant breaks and a few swift Bloody Marys.
So I may drink far more than is deemed acceptable for a woman of my age, don’t have a boyfriend to stroke my hair and tell me off for smoking fags, and have had unclean thoughts about a traffic warden (dirty girl), a homeless person and an 18 year old Prêt A Manger employee in the last 24 hours but I also have an afternoon of blissful, uninterrupted, unadulterated hungover fun ahead of me.
I must remember to go out drinking more often …