I woke up with a bloody awful headache. I was lying crumpled on the floor of Britannia's parlour. My mouth was dry, and my temples pounded, and my walking stick was nowhere to be seen. I very much doubt whether anyone reading this would believe me if I claimed to be some sort of total stranger to hangovers. I got my first hangover in 1976, a few days before my seventeenth birthday, and I have been having them with depressing regularity ever since. This felt like a hangover, but on this occasion there was something missing. I hadn't actually had anything to drink.
I don't think that I am an alcoholic, but I will admit that I drink more alcohol than most people do in this day and age. One of the more depressing side effects of this is that, quite probably as a side effect of mixing large amounts of brandy with the various psychotropic chemicals which I am prescribed for my various illnesses, is that sometimes I do get blackouts. There are times that I wake up in the morning, not remembering what I had done the night before, and I have had to learn the discipline of having to reconstruct what happened out of fragmentary memories.
Read on...
Read on...
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