We were so taken aback that we didn't know where to go or what to do, but in the end we decided on a meal at our local Italian restaurant, where we were served by real live actual Italians! Talk about a novelty! It was wonderful, the food was divine (and apparently award winning but I couldn't tell you what award) and the staff were really fun and friendly. I even enjoyed the decor, which was to my mind rather 1950s Atomic Era but Mr H just thought it looked like an Ikea had exploded.
Well I was enjoying myself so much (and here comes the excuse) that I decided to have a little drinkypoo. I should explain at this point that, generally, I don't drink. I don't have any objection to alcohol and certainly don't object to anyone else enjoying a tipple, I just prefer not to imbibe myself. I'm not all that keen on the taste and, unless I am eating at the same time and really in the mood, I just end up feeling headachy and sick. The only time I tend to drink is to have Baileys or Babysham at Christmas (yes, I am just that classy) or the occasional half of cider at a summer barbeque, and that has the consequence that it only takes one or two drinks before I am under the table. Which I was. Last night. Very quickly. <blush>
Sadly this it NOT what I looked like last night.
First I tried a Virgin Mary. I heard somewhere that Bloody Marys were brilliant at curing hangovers, but nothing on God's green earth was going to make me drink vodka at 8am, so I just stuck to mixing tomato juice with Worcestershire sauce, cayenne pepper and a celery stick. It didn't work. Not even a bit. In fact, I think I felt worse. Bleaugh.
Next I listened to my Dad's advice (which quite frankly I should do more often, that way I wouldn't get into these messes in the first place) and downed a pint of water. This did help a little, in that it didn't feel like my tongue was covered in sand anymore, but it probably would have helped more if I had drunk it before going to bed and it probably would have meant that I wouldn't have spent all morning with my stomach sounding like a washing machine.
Then I tried Mr H's solution. He cooked me a fried breakfast of black pudding, bacon and beans, and then hovered around me optimistically as I ate. I really wish he hadn't because it meant I had to eat all of it. Every last grease-laden bite. Double bleaugh.
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From 'Musings From Marilyn'
In the end, I settled for the tried and tested Think Pink technique. Which basically involves pink. Anything pink. Everything pink. I read somewhere that pink is meant to sooth fractious nerves (I really do read some crap), so when I am feeling rotten I surround myself with pink. I wore pink, painted my nails pink, drank VERY strong coffee out of my pink heart-shaped cup and saucer, bought pink iced cupcakes from the supermarket and I even dyed my hair the most fabulous shade of Schiaperelli pink.
Yeah, okay so I may have got a bit carried away with the pink hair but now I feel on top of the world. I only hope the feeling continues when I have to scrub clean my now-pink bathroom. Whoops!
Mrs H x