Loss of drinking shoes

This is me the morning after. Although I had hair. And leftover mascara. This guy looks good compared to me.

Despite recent cries about the fact that I am not getting old, I appear to stand somewhat corrected as confirmed to me recently by my inability to handle a 3am finish.

On the one hand, massive backslaps to me for making it to 3am. A 3am which, I might add, included several shots with the requisite sexual innuendo laden moniker – something slippery or hairy, I believe. I also talked a lot of nonsense, pretended I didn’t have two children, danced in a non-dance floor environment, put the world to rights with the girls, watched a half naked girl gyrate with a slightly sinister looking Russian gentleman and spent some time discussing whether the length of her skirt made her a working girl, or just look like a working girl; either way, it was entertaining to watch. 3 am I tell you, ooohh regardez-moi.

On the other hand – I was PATHETIC the next day. After a cold, winterly, mostly drinkless January in London, the warmth of an Australian summer went to my head and six proseccos later, I was full of super witty yet insightful banter. Which meant the next day I was forced to lie down a lot. And complain. And eat McDonalds. And a Mars bar. And complain a lot. If I hadn’t gone to bed early, I may well have found myself without husband, such was his lack of understanding at my pain, and his relentless complaints about his own. Unfortunately, I still had the two children when I woke up. Yes, selfishly, despite us going to bed in the early hours, they still woke up at 7am and wanted food. Incredible. No-one put THAT in the brochure when I was perusing parenthood. Or maybe they did and I was too busy focusing on the tiny weeny baby socks. How cute are they? Worth having number three, surely? See, that’s how it happens – one day you’re looking at baby socks, the next you find yourself hungover and making breakfast at 7am, regretting that extra child.

We had the predictable discussion the next day about the fact that we are giving up drinking. Possibly until we die, possibly just until the children have gone to university. Apparently, then you no longer worry about them.  And, despite the fact that some of you will be secretly wondering whether we have a drinking problem, and tut tutting at our irresponsible approach to choosing to have another child (such tiny tiny little socks), the fact is that we hardly ever do it. Which might make it worse. Maybe I am just out of form? Like an athlete, perhaps I just need to put in some serious drinking hours and I’ll rediscover my bar fitness ?  No, put down the phone to social services you ninnies, I am joking. I just can’t do it anymore. Well, not regularly anyway.

Oh, all this self analysis is exhausting.  No wonder I need a drink

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