Have been looking for old email in my sent items box - trying to work out how many complaints we've had on the site about undelivered prizes (answer - too many, but I like to be specific about quantities when I'm beating underlings over the head).
And I found this - a quite spectacular outpouring of bile from March this year. I wish I could remember why i was hungover, though...
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Well, at about 6.30am on Saturday I was awoken gently by Sarah. At which I realised that I had the WORST hangover imaginable. I complained a lot, drank a pint of water, went mrrmrmrpphhrrrrlllmmmrrmmrmrmmr quite a lot and proceded to sleep until 2pm.
I then tidied S's flat in a halfhearted 'Christ, where's the bloody nurofen' kind of a way. then I staggered to Peckham - an unpleasant journey as there's still no bloody public transport on any given route that I decide to take in London. In fact, I think there's some kind of small elite force that has me under surveillance, and deliberately breaks busses, tubes and trains when they see me coming.
Having got back to Peckham, I drank about 3 pints of tea and played Sim City 4 until 2.30 am. I am quite pleased with myself, as I have discovered how to make a quick profit, whilst ensuring that I have mostly upper and middle class people in my cities. This makes me happy, as I can afford to buy them schools and parks and nice non-polluting industries. If I have poor people in slums, I go bankrupt. I find that I am not at all worried by this. This means I have gone through the point at which I can be reasonably expected to vote Tory at the next election. (What's more, the rich peoples houses have nicer gardens.)
Alas, still hungover at 2.30 am, I went to bed, read an Unauthoried Autobiography of Lemony Snickett (which was strange, but I think it would have been strange even without hangover and insomnia...)
I woke up, inexplicably, at 7am on Sunday. Still hungover. I am beginning to violently dislike the fact that I have turned into a morningy person who can wake up. Luckily, I still have the ability to go back to sleep again, although the hymns and religion on Radio 4 made this a bit of an odd experience.
Another tussle with public transport, and I met my old flatmate for lunch in Soho. It was at about 1pm on Sunday that I finally became vaguely aware that the weather was really nice (it had stopped really hurting my eyes, by this stage. I was still feeling quite queasy though.)
I had some kind of Halloumi toasted sandwich. Halloumi is very salty. I would not reccomend it as an ideal ingredient for a toasted sandwich, particularly if you then smother it with dried mint. The ideal toastie cheese, is, of course, cheap cheddar. Not, as some would have you beleive, Kraft squares. They're a little on the saltygreasy side, and don't melt in quite the correct way. Incidentally, the ex-flatmate (French Jo) was a bit confused when she first came to england, as she presumed that 'Cheddar' was Le Anglais pour 'Fromage', and not 'Cheese' as she had erroneously been taught at school.
Then, another public transpot hassle (After a trip to Covent Garden Tescos, which is unique among supermarkets. This is because it has a weird bank style 'Cashier Number FIVE please' thing read by a woman who sounds like she's auditioning for a revival of Bullseye.)
Having returned to Peckham, played another couple of hours of SimCity (I got a university. Woo. Yay.). I also watched incoming reports on the war. I watch them like some strange kind of reality show, and provide a running sarcasm commentary on CNN, News24 and Sky (who are laughable at news. They haven't topped the point on 9/11 when the reader finished a phone in report with the words 'That's my boyfirend, and thank goodness he's OK'. Choice. Professional) . I am thinking that I have finally become unhinged by the media. And I have decided that the Iraquis are the best, because they all wear cute little Notting Hill utility stylee parkas. I also love the fact that they have a town called Umm Qasr. Can you imagine that? 'Where do you live?' 'Ummmmm.... Qasr?'
Other observations: The British forces are kind of hiding in Kuwait, going, 'well, you big Americans, umm... yes, we'll back you up. Go on... we'll be along in just a bit.' This might be because the Americans seem to shoot more brits than iraqis. The patriot missile system - so called cos it shoots 'owt that 'aint American.
I'm also a bit disgusted at the fact that an 8 year old American girl has been coming home crying from her very nice school in Fulham. Because the teachers have made her understand that America is to blame. And wants to take over the world, and will give up on Britain when they've finished with dicking about with the rest of the world. Her family made the decision to return home in a fortnight. They're sick of having people be vitriolic to them.
Then went over to Putney again (yet another hour on public transport) and finished cleaning, and made tea.
It is now Monday. I am still hungover. It's not bloody fair. It was only four pints on friday night. And I missed the best weekend of the year due to alcohol poisoning.