We went to a Burns Night Supper on Friday, I elected to drive as I didn't really want to risk having a huge hangover the next day and also, to be fair, it was my turn as Si has taken the driving duties the last few times we've been out.
We had an excellent evening and stuck to my plan of staying under the limit while Simon partook fully, he didn't get wasted but was still happily merry as I poured him into the car after the ceilegh. But oh the next day when we woke up he was a delicate and suffering Simon as the Highland Park took its revenge.
I do not mock, I have been there myself where it isn't so much the amount that you drink but rather the what, whisky and port can give very bad hangovers for not much drunk. Also as I slipped past my early thirties I have found that my powers of recovery have faded away, where once all it took was a cherry coke (full fat) and a cheese sandwich to put me almost right with the world, it now takes a whole weekend of care, attention and nothing too heavy on the stomach to put me back to sorts.
Fortunately Simon was coaxed back into the land of the not so suffering with mashed potatoes and baked beans for lunch and an afternoon nap. But its becoming increasingly clear that the days roistering and seeing the dawn come in with a glass of splishy splashy in our hands may be slowly slipping away from us.