Call Guiness, there’s a new champ in town!
It is Saturday morning and I have a hangover.
A totally and utterly unjustified hangover. I had three glasses of white wine alongside my dinner and after dinner chat sessions with my extended family. This morning I am absolutely raging. Why? Do? I? Feel? So? Crap?
But I already know the reason. The reason I feel so crap is that I don’t drink enough water. I hate the stuff. I don’t like the way it tastes and I actually rarely feel particularly thirsty. I’m not much of a juice drinker either. I wish I was, I would probably look better and I know I would definitely feel better.
The most liquid that goes past my lips is the little bit of water I take with my paracetamol.
I am actually fond of the idea of having a drip installed. I could pop it in at night and re-hydrate without having to drink. Lovely.
Now, I have to tell you a story don’t I? You’re not going to like it. It’s utterly horrible. You’ll think less of me….Oh well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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Meeester and I were in our first flat before we got married. I was a lecturer in a college that was 65 miles from my house. It was my first grown up, no pissing about job. I had to travel 90 minutes there and back every day on the horrific, mainly single carriage, tractor laden A96. I was always on the road by 6.30am, often in varying states of readiness (I seem to remember occasionally driving in my jammies and getting changed along the way. I am not a morning person.)
One night, our downstairs neighbours were moving and had decided to have everyone in the block over for last night drinks and chat. But it was a school night. Oh dear… I didn’t drink a horrible amount, just enough to make sure that the 5 hours sleep I had wasn’t enough.
I awoke the next morning and was determined to get some water into my system before heading off to work. I got in the car and went for petrol for my ever thirsty Volvo and a big bottle of Evian for my never thirsty self. I drank half the water in one go. Chuggity chug. That’ll do the trick. I set off.
Meanwhile inside my breakfast-less body my vacuum of a stomach is sent into shock at the sudden invasion of a little seen visitor. Cold pints of water flood in and my stomach sets about rejecting the experience as being too cold, too wet, too alien, too much and too nutritious. I am traveling at 70 miles an hour on a dual carriageway at this point.
You can imagine what happened. At 70 miles an hour. With no warning. All over the dash and inside windscreen. I had to stop the car, get out, undress, change (I had an overnight bag of clothes that I hadn’t quite got round to taking into the house, thankfully). The commuters of the Aberdeen to Inverness road got quite a treat that day.
I got to work and managed to get through the day with the help of a shower in the Sports and Leisure department and a bizarre kind of “show must go on” mentality.
That night safely back at home, I wondered whether phoning the Guinness Book of Records to claim the record for the highest land speed velocity throw up would make the best of a bad experience.
