*sigh*
“Dixon was alive again. Consciousness was upon him before he could get out of the way; not for him the slow, gracious wandering from the halls of sleep, but a summary, forcible ejection. He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as looking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he’d somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by the secret police. He felt bad.”
This quote, by Kingsley Amis, in Lucky Jim, was introduced to me by a hardened drinker on a very boozy holiday in France recently. It’s quite simply the finest description of a hangover I’ve ever heard. I thought of it when I woke up this morning. Then I did what any sensible person will do after a hard night’s drinking and smoking (aaagh – I’ve given up! I have, I have!), which is…
1. Alka Seltzer. (plink plink fizzzz)
2. Food. Preferably something heavy and greasy and pack to the gills with cholesterol.
3. Sit in the corner and moan softly.
Repeat every 4 hours
Why? Why?