Last Sunday Morning

I wake and gradually understand where I am. In bed at home. Beside my bed the bucket is testimony to my late night but I do not recall how I got home. Fragments of memory leak to the surface, a snatch of conversation, a face, a dimly lighted bar. I groan as I try to reconstruct the previous night, in part from pain and nausea, in part from what I may remember. I lie there in my misery and vow to never, never do it again. But I know that I will. The memory will fade and I am too old to learn from my mistakes.

5 thoughts on “Last Sunday Morning

  1. The older you get, the longer it takes to recover. A couple of pints now and I have to start considering what I’m meant to be doing for the next couple of days

  2. As I get older I find the headaches aren’t so much of a problem, it’s the churning stomach that goes on well into the next afternoon and the inability to sustain any physical activity more than a few minutes.Beer’s still good fun though, isn’t it?

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