Sunday, 20 March 2011

...And then it was finally the weekend.

You would think that any weekend that begins with getting your car locked in car park would be a bad one, but I should just like to reassure you fine people, this is not the case. It is however an event that I will no be repeating.

It was of course Brian who get himself locked in, and not his negligent driver who is unable to read warning signs. But the presence of a delightful ice cold gin and tonic took away the pain of waiting behind a security barrier. It did not however, hide the embarassment at the cars driving past waving at the idiot who got herself locked in a car park.
Luckily my ignorance added to the hilarity of post work drinks to celebrate  Miss Alice Chamberlain's new job and 5 month emigaration to Greece for the summer season. (Alice: I shall be flying out to see you, just don't let me drink my weight in sambuca!)

I should not like to consider how much gin was consumed on Friday night, but it was enough to feel like something had crawled in to my mouth and died when I woke from a heavy 'sleep' on saturday morning. The beauty of drinking copious amounts of gin at social gatherings is that I had two wonderful friends to keep me under control and conserve my dignity - something very important when beveraging in  an old workplace with familar regulars and ex-colleagues.  Spake and Dr. Dee, I commend you on your efforts, and apologise, I have a hazy recollection of the evening. My self control slipped, as it often does, when my inner ladette (a personality I keep well hidden, but who unfortunately responds to high levels of alcohol) escaped in the carpark. when this gin drinking lout decided to quietly release a small and lady like burp.
Echoed is an understatement. I  disgusted  myself.  And then carried on tottering to the car for my lift home.  Please do not judge me. Usually I am fine example of elegance and decorum, but if Gordon and his mate's tonic and lime arrive to join the party then I'm done for!

The only thing worse than a small hangover from gin consumption is a Ninja hangover. These are deadly. They have an uncanny ability to sneak up on you when you least expect it. You awake in the morning ( or early afternoon as it is in some cases) and are  lured into a false sense of security by your surprisinly clear vision, lack of 'litter tray' mouth and thumping of the brain. Do not be fooled. You have not escaped.

A ninja wraps itself around your head and squeezes so it feels like your little dehydrated and shrunken brain is going to burst forth from your eyeballs. It is trained to suck every once of energy from your body and turns your mouth into an amplifier of muffled unintelligble sounds that emerge from your vocal chords. The only cure? You must succumb to the pain (for paracetamol is not mighty enough to destroy the Ninja) and sleep.

I am plagued by ninja's when I change my choice beverage  from the spirits to a liquid that begins with 'W' and rhymes with 'mine'. I can't say the word (or think it) for fear the reparcussions.... stunning biological pyrotechnics.
Saturday evening announced the arrival of two very dear friends. I was of course completely ahead of schedule. Dinner was prepared and I was suitably dressed to greet and entertain fellow graduates/housemates.

Of course I am lying.
The only preparations made for the evening's antics were the bottles chilling in the fridge. The array of vegetables lay unprepared on the counter and the oven remained dark and cold. I am not one to follow recipes and enjoy a very blase cooking method:  a bit of this, a sprinkle of that, fry that, dunk that there, season this and then "Oh poo, I should have put those in to roast 40 minutes ago".  Voila!
The result? A dinner on the table at 9.30. Slightly pissed housemates and a lovely recipe that I shall never be able to recreate.
 While concocting a spectacular feast of moroccan lamb stuffed peppers with seasoned sweet potato wedges, I was happy sipping my aloholic grape juice.

"But" I hear you cry, " why would you drink if you were already hungover?". Well my friends, the answer lays in the my cultural lessons as life as a student. The only exception to not continuing to drink the day after was if you were unable to raise your head from the pillow. And because I still had the control and movement of all my appendages, I consumed a large amount of grape flavoured alcohol with Mr S Musical and Miss BBL last night.
I awoke this morning blinded by sunshine and roasting beneath a duvet more suited to winter in the Serbia, than a cool spring night in a central heated home.
It appears that a brisk walk along the beach in the sunday afternoon sunshine triggered my Ninja. Which was then made worse by lunch in the sailing club.

And so you find me here, sprawled on my bed, groaning on the inside and wincing at the brightness of my laptop screen (and yes, I have already turned it down.)
I can't even relish in the relief that I have a few more days to recover because tomorrow is Monday. What happened to the ability to instantly recover? Perhaps this 'skill' disappears the day you don the cap and gown and collect your very expensive piece of paper.

Next weekend shall be the same. Frank is returning to my family home after a prolonged absence ( a visit I am eargerly awaiting), along with a whole host of family members who are reuniting for what shall be a riot of a weekend. My younger sister, studying the art of fashion and Birmingham nightlife, is returning home, and as with most sibling rivalries I will be rising to the challenge - I shall not be beaten by her youth and ability to hold her booze like a cactus holds water.
If someone offers me an ice cold gin and tonic, I will not be turning it down.

But please may I have an extended weekend to recover?  Thank you kindly.

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