Hung.

Today I suffered through the worst hangover I have had in quite some time.

At about 4.30pm I regained the ability to eat a small bread roll without exploding, and it was all uphill from there.

I had a great night though. So ... worth it. However, my breakfast bacon - lovingly prepared for me by the gorgeous Leen - went uneaten. Never before have I scorned bacon. It was a tragedy.

As I lied on the couch through the afternoon, the soothing voice of David Attenborough caressing my woozy brain, I ruminated on change. As I progressed from documentaries to Sex and the City, I began to look for morals Bradshaw style.

In the past I thought nothing of an absent Sunday, routinely crushing it under the weight of the previous night. But now, I'm filled with irritation and remorse. Think of all the things I could've been doing in those hours? If I was going to writhe around clutching my skull with my legs held at odd angles, I could at least have been participating in a chic workshop on interpretive dance.

If I could go back in time I believe I would choose to share the vodka rather than hog it, but Que Sera Sera.

Que Sera Sera
Whatever will be will be
The future's not covered in bees
Que Sera Sera