The morning after

It's gone 5pm and I'm lay in bed listening to Marianne Faithful on 6 Music and the Hackney rain, trying to force myself to keep drinking water and debating if paracetamol will make me feel more or less queasy. I'm not even relishing the idea of another cup of tea, and I'm still wearing yesterday's eyeliner. That's how good last night was.

Despite the lovely birthday dinner with my excellent friends inevitably turning into drunken silliness outside a bar, I managed to keep hold of the pretty lillies kindly given to me by The Norwegian  - I'm quite proud of that. I'm also proud of the cards that I got given, two of which were handmade, and one of which contained a drawing of a big gay dancing pirate, which was actually a portrait of me. Pretty accurate.

During dinner, Mr Scooter bet No'rn Ir'on that she couldn't fit her whole steak in her mouth. She did, so she's owed cash money by him. In her words, "payoff for having a massive gob and no gag reflex."

Attractively, an evening of rich food and excessive amounts of white wine and mojitos resulted in me being struck with a bout of comedy hiccups which caused much merriment amongst my friends and handily was documented in both photo and video form, apparently. Brilliant. Might put that on my dating profile.

Badger was staying with me and we decided to drunkenly teach No'rn Ir'on the cardgame Shithead, seeing as this was how we spent our entire first year of uni, along with drinking tea, listening to Mark and Lard and copious roll-ups. It's nice that a decade has passed, we've got proper jobs and that, one of us has been married and bought a house, but yet we recement our friendship by calling each other gay and playing a silly card game. No'rn Ir'on enjoyed the fact that it was her first ever game and she managed to totally rinse us both. We got owned a bit. I blame the wine.