Bruised shins

I have just woken up with a stonking hangover. Not a little, fuzzy-tongued hangover. Not a vague, furry-headed hangover. No; a big, whopping, cannot-move-out-of-bed-and-am-writing-on-laptop-because-suspect-may-be-sick-if-try-to-turn-on-main-computer hangover. The birds - one of which, I realised at three am this morning when I woke up to drink three pints of water, sounds like an iPod scrolling (click click click click click) - have never been jauntier. I swear to you: the perkiest birds in the country have flown to Welwyn Garden this morning and perched themselves outside my window. Along with light. Lots of light. Waiting for me to open my curtains so that it can rush straight into my head and make me cry. Which isn't going to happen, because these curtains are staying shut today.

I have never loved a hangover more.

One of the decisions I made about four weeks ago - when I tried to take money out of my overdraft and the computer said no - was that until I found employment, I wouldn't let myself go out, socially. There was just no way I could possibly justify getting more and more into debt just for the sake of some fun; it would be incredibly irresponsible. And I've stuck to it. For four weeks, I've not left the house. I've written, I've gardened, I've dressed up like a wally and I've decorated the main bedroom, but I've not had a drink. And I've not seen friends. 

Yesterday, however, I finished my novel. Finished, finished it. There's nothing else I can do with it, now: it is done. Now all I have to do is start shovelling it into envelopes and playing the long rejection-game (I knew my love-life had trained me for something). So, to celebrate, I went to see one of my very best friends - one of the friends that makes me laugh hardest - and I drank four pints of cider in a very nice little pub by the Thames. I laughed until my face hurt. And then I wobbled home, ate a pizza, burnt my lip, fell into a chair and bruised my leg, had a giggly phone-call with a boy who makes me giggle, and passed out with no clothes on. I had, in short, the kind of night a 27 year old is supposed to have more often than once in four weeks. And it felt bloody marvellous.

So - frankly - the birds can sing as much as they want, today, and the light can shine as bright as it likes. Nothing is taking the (slightly queasy) grin off my face this morning. Because this hangover, I earned.