I do believe I’ve lost the will to drink. No. Really….. After my first foray into the darker side of life (the pub with mates to watch the inaugural match of the Six Nations tournament), after five weeks on the wagon, I realised: I can’t do it, I don’t like it, and it most definitely doesn’t like me too much.
I was home by eleven pm, in bed with a hot water bottle and watching The Voice on catch up. Who is this person masquerading as me? I think for sure the old Annie P is inside there somewhere, but she’s got all kinds of comfy in the last five weeks, and she’s quite happy to stay there, with her feet up and have a nice cup of herbal tea.
Last night’s paltry handful of drinks rendered me like your dear old nana. I was full of unnecessary beer gas, couldn’t sleep and had chronic indigestion. The hangover of this from which I am still suffering a little. Twenty hours later. So. Damn. Attractive.
What am I going to do? Where will all the funnies come from, without shenanigans and gincidents? No one ever took a bite of a Caesar, and found themselves dancing in Sidecar at five in the morning. No one ever gulped down a couple of cherry toms and ended up in bed with a twenty-two year old Italian rugby player. For example. So I’m led to believe…….
I suppose I will just have to tell stories of really good exam results and talk about the weather, share my recipes for delicious clean food, ask you about what retirement policy you’re with; and never recount tales of tomfoolery ever, ever again. I’ll eventually disappear up into my own alcohol-free, green juice slurping, self-righteous arse.
It’s going to be awful!!! NNNNnnooOoooooooooooooooooo!
Who will I become now?? How will this PANK evolve, I wonder? Will you still chat to me here? Will you be as interested in my infusion recommendations, as you have been in my tales of naughtiness, that render me the worst candidate for motherhood EVER.
I don’t recognise myself!! Send help!
(Preferably in the guise of something gin-ey or fizzy or a combination of the two)