Sunday morning

There are few experiences that grip me with the same degree of horror as sitting in the back of a taxi, uncertain as to whether I can avoid throwing up before disembarking.

And thank fuck for that for it is not a pleasant feeling.

For the record I did indeed avoid throwing up in the taxi much to my - and presumably my driver's - relief. However it would be wrong to say that this weekend has been completely free of vice. Indeed as I sit here, at work on a Sunday, filled with what Orson Welles said were the only two emotions possible to feel on an airplane (boredom and terror: boredom because there is little to do, terror because I am responsible for my section of the paper and I'm scared I will fuck it up) I can't help but feel that this weekend I have indulged just about all of my vices. Shall we discuss?

1. Booze. Self-explanatory. I am, clearly, no alcoholic but I do seem brilliantly capable of ignoring the voice in my head that tells me perhaps I should switch to water right about now.

2. Book buying. This is what happens when I am bored and let loose near a computer. I have just blown a tremendous amount of money on bloody amazon. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

3. Food. Again self-explanatory. When a hangover calls there is no chance I'm not going to eat a bowl of potato gems for breakfast and, indeed, lunch. So what's my excuse for the rest of the time? Hmm not sure.

4. Wouldn't you like to know.

To conclude: I have used my pathetic one-day weekend extremely productively. And were someone to suggest, perhaps, that I have damaged my liver, my bank account and, arguably, relationship with anyone I may or may not have spoken to on Friday night, I would counter that nobody ever wished for more early nights and bigger savings on her deathbed. So far as I know.