About 4 years ago I went to Dublin for a week with the lovely Miss Charlotte Thompson.
On the last day, I woke up, with quite literally, the worst hangover of my life. I couldn't move, my head was about to explode, I couldn't stop throwing up, I felt like I was going to pass out any second. I'm sure some of you have been there...and if you haven't...I really don't advise it...although the night before really was a whole lot of fun...
Anyway, as we had one day left in the wondrous city, we really felt like we should make the most of it.
Charlotte was feeling pretty bright and breezy and hopped out early to see some sights, probably the sight of my hangover face was making her feel a little queasy too.
When I finally dragged my arse out of bed, I met her in a park where I instantly collapsed and professed I could move no longer...(not that I'm dramatic or anything...) Through sheer will and a little bit of strength Char managed to coax me down Grafton Street, whilst I was holding onto her for dear life....But the nausea wouldn't leave me. Every step I took down that crowded street I felt like I was going to throw up into some tourist's lunchbox. But I managed to hold it back...for about 10 minutes...
I could take the pain no longer, last nights cider, wine and vodka combination wanted to come back into the world and say hello to the streets of Dublin. And so it was, that at the side of some posh street whilst passers by looked on appallingly, I spewed my guts out. All over the pavement. And possibly a little bit on my shoe (or someone elses...)
Now why am I writing about this minging tale, this hangover from hell?
Because today, like most days, I feel like that horrible, disgusting vomit that I left on the street.
I can't stop feeling like that puddle of sick, something people want to avoid, want to look away from, want to stay away from, something that is disintegrating into nothingness.