M.I.A

Have been somewhat M.I.A this weekend - Sunday was spent lazily roasting myself on the beach and splashing through the waves with the dogs and the Chef at Mordialloc (and of course, eating salty fish and chips smothered in ketchup at Black Rock, just to improve my metabolism).

Yesterday was The Wedding, and silly me did exactly as I planned, and got rip roaringly sloshed on a 4 litre cask of wine, a bottle of champagne and a kettle full of bacardi. (Yes. A kettle. At this stage, my ability to find a jug or other liquid dispensing device was limited).

Fittingly, the hangover fairy has been visiting me today, screaming at me to get water and other life saving items such as vegemite on toast/hot sweet tea etc, when, as Bridget Jones once said, it seemed better not to disturb bits of machinery and pheasants flapping around in my head.

I ended up having to drive Chef into the CBD early morning to get his car, as it as apparently got locked down in the carpark last night, which wasn't the most enjoyable thing without sunglasses and an intravenous coffee drip. The drive, I mean, not the carpark. I didn't like to admit just how many litres of alcohol I had consumed in the space of 3 hours, which he was obviously angling for when asking me to drive, so I just feel rather grateful I was not invited into police presence, and my state of mind at least somewhat numbed the otherwise frightening terror of driving in the city.

I did manage to wrangle TGI Friday's chips smothered in Jack Daniels glaze out of sympathy this morning, which was a bonus, although my liver and other vital organs still appear to be on strike. And of course those dogs don't exercise themselves, so after another long phone conversation with my mother (whom I apparently had a lengthy chat with yesterday evening...when? how? what?) I got horribly lost walking around Burwood, and taunted myself by ending up at Hungry Jacks.