She Said Dryly

It’s Monday morning and I’m shattered.  I’m shattered because this weekend I indulgently enjoyed two consecutive nights out, which have left me feeling  quite ready to admit that *deep breath* I can’t do it anymore.  A depressing realisation for anyone below the age of 30, I’m sure you’ll agree. 

Vats of Cosmopolitan on Friday night made for a hazy memory of the taxi ride home, and a potent blood : alcohol ratio only to be outdone by the following evening’s effort, as I ill-advisedly replenished with wine and Jagerbombs.  A written-off Sunday and a pile of work left for this morning was the disappointing result.

I had hoped for a constructive weekend of updating my blog or embarking upon one of my many impending assignments, but instead I found myself inanely catching flies in front of the telly, shoving anything with a fat content of over 25% in the general direction of my face, and drinking copious amounts of strong coffee.  Rather than getting out a pen and paper to spend the afternoon jotting down writing ideas or planning the week ahead, I found myself glued to the obligatory Sunday ‘Come Dine With Me’ marathon, captivated and unmoving, regardless of the fact that I had witnessed this particular competition – the one with Ernie from Wales – on at least four previous occasions.  Probably hung-over on a Sunday.

So after as much deliberation as I could muster amid yesterday’s lethargy, I have taken the decision to abstain from alcohol for the next month.  No Sir, not a single drop will pass my lips until the 29^th February.   And I must admit, as the coming weeks loom before me like a salt-flat stretch of the Sahara, I feel a little excited.  No longer will I be dogged by a head that feels as though it’s been overstuffed with cotton-wool, an unquenchable morning thirst, or the appetite of a small North African tribe.  I shall breeze through February carefree, unhindered by Facebook photo notifications, and – here’s hoping – a couple of pounds lighter.

Thirty days to go! 

Parched.