My body can’t cope with hangovers like it used to – Zella Compton
Something awful has happened to my body.
Apart from the natural getting older, slower, fatter complaints, my body has decided to extend hangovers to 48 hours.
I thought 24 was bad enough – but now a double dose of feeling like hell makes me wonder whether going out is actually worth it?
When I was teenager, I was super aware of how much I was drinking and I mitigated against the morning-after effects with accuracy.
For example, I knew when I needed to use fingers in my throat to avoid the spins and how many pieces of toast smothered with Marmite were needed to soak up any excess alcohol. Always followed with at least two cups of tea.
Or maybe it was just that I regenerated with Dr Who powers and now I’ve officially ran out of new lives?
But after the fantastic party which I was at on Friday night – Après ski complete with dozens of recycled Christmas trees, fairy lights, candles, a brazier and more – no amount of strategy toast could make me crawl out of bed until early afternoon the next day.
I then wiled away for most of the day in front of three films which I had to sleep through only to be woken by my three aghast teenagers feeding me sugar, who were shocked I could behave this way at my age.
And honestly, the next day wasn’t much better.
But you know what?
Once in a while it’s okay to let your hair down, have the most glorious evening dancing and drink a little too much. Personally, I blame those tiny glasses of wine – how is anyone supposed to keep actual track when you don’t have the bottle in front of you?
And there’s something to be said for behaving like a teenager when you are celebrating a friend’s 50th.
Yes, the word that may be said is inappropriate but I would choose awesome any day of the week.
If the next party takes me three days to recover from, so be it.
My body may bear the brunt of the excess, but my brain knows my heart is still metaphorically young.
Brexit means Brexit – stop the meaningful vote rubbish
Meaningful vote. How pointless are those words? They’re inane.
As any parent of young children will know, a meaningful vote is one between defined and finite choices. Like Wispa bars or Flakes. As any worker will know, a meaningful vote is based on the opinion of professional experts who come to a decision about the best way forward.
But in terms of our political system, a meaningful vote is an add-on expression to whatever scheme is being put together with flour and water in the hope that somehow, something will stick to the term Brexit. But nothing will as Brexit means Brexit.
Like anything without a definition, it’s made no sense from day one.
Please don’t compare my one love to an animated ogre
The similarity of Han Solo and Shrek has been pointed out – how depressing.
Han Solo was the hero of my formative years – dashing, intergalactic and man enough to hang-out with a Wookie.
Not everyone can happily converse with an oversized teddy bear – and one not wearing pants. None of that messing around gazing vapidly like Luke Skywalker, Han was 100 per cent my heart’s desire.
So how horrible to discover that he, and Shrek, wear the same costume: white shirt, belt, waistcoat, boots. Shrek’s okay in his own way I suppose if you don’t listen to the moaning or the dire accent, but swamp or light speed?
I’ll take Han any day