Thursday

After two days rest and relaxation and general chill I fell off the wagon with a vengeance last night, cementing my pact with alcohol with lashings of the sauce and Marlboro 'lights'.

I feel typically hung over. My skin feels like a pez dispenser, with weird humours seeping out of every pore, and the aroma of the pub last night shrouding me (I'm sure) like Pigpen from Charly Brown's dustcloud. I just warmed up a couple of Pain o' Chocolat I had in the fridge, then had a sudden crisis of confidence and opted instead for toast.

Actually it's not that bad. But unfortunately I've said I'll got for 'drinks & nibbles' with a recruitment agency this evening, a pleasure I could probably forgoe at the best of times but which seems at the minute massively less preferable to say, playing snap with a nest of pit vipers.

To counteract this, I might make an Itunes playlist comprised solely of Daniel Beddingfields 'Gotta Get Thru This', while drinking espresso through my eyes. Or I might not.

Sigh.