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“Have you been drinking?”

White hot shards of pain assaulting my ear drums, blind fingers searching for familiar shapes and textures, the smooth, round snooze button located before pawing at the lamp. The rods and cones slowly dealing with the information to my optic nerves - turning colours and matter into recognisable objects. Eyes like pickled onions fighting to turn the unconscious world into the disagreeable reality it is.

Several hours earlier

“Meeeee, drinkininininge? How dareyoo suggest that aye have been drinkininininggge”

Slurred while flapping to remove my coat and tripping over a sleeve, stumbling into the banister.

“Yes, but you have though, haven’t you?”

Looking into her eyes, well more like looking down the left and right barrels of a loaded shotgun, I had to concur with her eyes of menace that a swift pint with a friend had escalated into a several more. I suppose I could have called to say I would be out a bit later, but this happens every time I meet up with this guy. I don’t see him for weeks at a time, so when we do get together it’s like a couple of fishwives gossiping over a fence, only replace “gossip” with talking complete bollocks, and replace “talking over a fence” with talking over several pints of London Pride.

These midweek snifters tend to be bad news, I never plan to be out that late without eating (oopsie, never a good idea anyway), I never plan for the extra drinks, and I never plan for the thick head the following day! Is Eric a bad influence? Surely not, he is a man of wit, and learning, of culture, and breeding. He is also as reckless and disorganized as a man can be, so maybe, just maybe I ought to have seen my hangover coming