Drinking and the heebie jeebies.

Get me some of this NOW


I love it. I do. I love sitting round a table with my friends, pouring wine down my neck and laughing (or crying) for hours and hours. It is good for the soul. I am not nor have I ever been a raging alcoholic. Sure I have had a fair amount over the years but I have never injured myself, been arrested, wet myself or tried to snog anyone inappropriate. So, halo intact, why is it that my body decided that drink now is like poison to my not indelicate self.  Virtually arsenic. So much so that I have to steer myself to  having a few glasses  and bugger it – do it anyway. The consequences inevitably are as follows:

1. Broken sleep – wake up 2 hours after falling into a deep sleep and then just  lie awake for hours.

2. Skin like a chimpanzees arse – all red and flared up.

3.Palpitations – my particular favourite BOOM BOOM BOOM goes the strings of my heart. Is this it?

4. A head like a toyshop – world shattering uncontrolled meaningless thoughts pile in on me.

Things like:

I am a bad mother.

What does Betty Turpin’s hotpot really taste like?

I am so unfit.

Why can’t I be arsed to hoover even occasionally?

My Mum and Dad were more relaxed and healthier than I am. I expect I will keel over soon.

Should I get botox?

Why do I write a blog when I should be my energy into writing another book not splurging daily in an uncontrollable fashion.

I am a blithering idiot.

What does blithering mean?

Jimmy Clithero. There’s a name I haven’t thought about since I was a kid.

Was he a person or a character.

I must get a job.

I must volunteer for a local charity.

Should have brought my son up in the country. Healthier lifestyle than the city.

The dogs are old, they will die soon –( tears well up nip that thought in the head and MOVE ON)

I am so damn thirsty but I can’t be bothered to get up and snorkle water.

I can’t believe I stuffed a fish supper in my mouth walking home and talking on the phone at the same time.

Then had a couple of handfuls of chocolate cake.

Why can’t I be more like Jane Seymour and less like a psychotic middle aged harridan.

I must write a Eurovision song contest entry, or a musical.

I want to live in a hot country.

How can I possibly have a teenage son when I was a but a vile teenager myself only minutes ago.

That cartoon idea.  I must write to Aardman and see if they like it.

My Dads fiddle is in being repaired. It has been for 3 years. I must get it. Tomorrow.

Should have brought my son up in the sun. Outdoor life so much better.

I wish David would stop bloody snoring. (THWACK!)

Feel a bit better after walloping the long suffering husband. I might as well get up. Close eyes briefly, wake up 3 hours later  unbelievably grumpy.

Good Morning!

Yeh as I suspected. Mental.

Yes insomnia does takes it's toll. Well I am almost 28


Writer & broadcaster.

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