Sunday, 8 December 2013


I was going to get loads done today, but instead I am crouching over my PC with a hangover, feebly flicking between Twitter, Amazon and Facebook, the unholy trinity of time-wasting.

The plan was to get up early(ish), drive over to Salisbury and get a car-full from the Cash & Carry, then perhaps saunter into town for a bite of lunch and a look at the Sunday Christmas market.  That's not happening.

What actually happened was rather less festive.  I woke up at 6am and  stumbled out to the bathroom, where I encountered Mr WithaY, pale and shuddering, red-eyed and hollow-voiced, possibly drinking water from the cold tap, I'm not too sure.  My eyes seemed to be somewhat defective. He announced that he had a hangover.  I said something vaguely sympathetic and went back to bed.  He then crashed out in the spare room, where I found him several hours later, supine and inarticulate.

I made us both cups of tea and bacon sandwiches, and made him drink a very large glass of water before he had anything to eat. He is now asleep on the sofa downstairs, the dog asleep on his feet.  This sudden malady might be explained by the excellent dinner party we were invited to last night, but I suspect Mr WithaY was already dehydrated.

Yesterday morning he decided to go over to the Ancient Technology Centre for their Medieval Day.  This entailed him scampering up into the loft (in his dressing gown, in high excitement) to retrieve the Medieval kit I made for him a while ago, and various other bits and pieces required to turn him into a fashionable Medieval crossbowman-about-town.

Off he went, clutching his boar spear*, his crossbow and a packed lunch, to spend the day wandering around in the rain, delighting visitors with his well-made jacket.

As usually happens when he is off doing this kind of thing - and yes, he does this kind of thing a fair bit - he failed to keep himself hydrated throughout the day, so when we went out for dinner last night, the finest wines known to humanity had a devastating effect on his delicate physiology.

As a result, this morning he is stretched out on the sofa like a Romantic poet on an opium binge, a glass of water at his elbow and cruddy daytime TV in the background.

I'd like to be smug about it, but I am not much better myself. We're supposed to be taking part in the pub quiz later this evening, but I'm not entirely sure we'd be up to our usual brilliant standard.

In other news: I have the date for my surgery. January 2nd, with the pre-op on Dec 23rd, neatly bookending the festive season.  The good thing about having it done so soon is that hopefully I will have recuperated fully by the time things start to get busy in the Spring, and before Mr WithaY has to be away a lot for work.

Before then, though, we've got a couple of large-ish catering events to deliver, as well as the Christmas stuff.  Lots going on.

*Not a euphemism