I Do It To Myself

My head hurts. I drank too much.

I’ve tried my usual hangover cure of wallowing in recriminations and self-pity, drinking a gallon of water and rustling up some cheese on toast but to no avail. My head hurts.

A headache is a curious thing. It’s not really a headache, your skull isn’t hurting, it’s your brain itself in agony and that is actually you- your soul crying out “why oh why did I do it to myself?” Brains aren’t that clever. Surely my brain has made the connection between ‘drinking too much’ and ‘hangover’ yet it still instructs my hand to raise the glass. Repeatedly. The brain is grey. It's a pretty dull colour for such a big deal of an organ.

There’s something quintessentially comforting to me about the Sunday hangover; The slowly ticking clock, the shops closing early, the rain trickling down the pane. The newspaper. Endless cups of tea. Church bells.

So now my Sunday is a write-off. This takes the pressure off. I will now be phenomenally proud of myself for achieving relatively simple tasks. “Hey, I got dressed, nice work fella”. “I’ve been to a shop and bought some milk- rock ON!” Even completing this stunted blog will feel like I’ve just completed writing the entire works of Shakespeare. I will be inordinately proud of myself. I might even whistle as I press ‘submit’. I will have achieved something. Won’t I?