www.peterhartmilitary.com Well fresh from an unwise consumption of assorted pints of foaming ale and bubbly cider on Saturday night I can assure you they do. The carefree cheeriness with which I accepted my seventh pint; that feeling of joie de vivre, that everything was right in the world has been replaced by a dull ache. For five days I had not drunk anything alcoholic: my mind was racing streets ahead, every neuron springing to work with a metaphorical spring in their steps. I was able to bash off an article for the Australian War Memorial in a matter of hours, I could intervene in complex family quarrels between my four and eight year old daughters without making the situation worse and I could accept the deep trauma of Liverpool’s humiliating defeat by the mighty Barnsley without too much collateral damage to my nearest and dearest.After my night of revelry, when I got back home I found the ‘pillows of doom’ outside the bedroom door! It seemed it was to be the attic and the cold comfort of my library for me. Yet even then I had the residual brainpower to drink a couple of glasses of water and soluble aspirin! I even realised that Polly was fast asleep and would never notice me sneaking into the matrimonial bed. I’d still got it! I was unaffected by booze. A new life of carefree debauchery lay before me…But come the dawn, all is dull as if a strange cloudy cloud has descended on me like the blanketing fog over the British lines on 21 March 1918. I have an ache at both the front and back of the head, disrupted eyesight, a slight feeling of nausea and everyone I know is a bloody nuisance. I still have to check and send off the article written yesterday and I can barely read it, never mind focus on any finely honed arguments. Thank the Holy Sausage that looks down on us all that I didn’t have the eighth pint is all I can think! Urrrggggghhhhh!Peter Hart Sunday 17 February
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