On drinking too much and loving it

On Friday the Boy Wonder and I went for a day of sponsored fun in London – we started on a boat up the Thames having some very nice food and an entirely insufficient commentary about the surroundings, but as we were there for the fun, not the learning, it was fine. Then we went on the London Eye, which is something the Boy Wonder had expressed an interest in, and although the ponderously slow pace of the thing put me off originally, I have to say it was certainly an experience. There was a wedding going on in the pod next to us, which was quite fun to watch, and a woman in our pod who was clearly not keen on going too close to the edge, so was shuffling around the bench in the middle apologising to everyone. We then progressed down the South Bank and did some wine tasting – after a brief talk on how to taste wine (where I had some serious issues with listening to everyone else slurping their wine in the traditional style, and also swirled my glass a bit too hard and got wine all over my jeans) we romped around the various rooms tasting Champagne, more wine and some rum – all for free! Having managed to maintain my sobriety for most of the evening, we then met up with one of our most special friends, Ronnie, after whom we have named a fish, and partly because of whom, the Boy Wonder has to keep his phone on silent when we go to bed otherwise he calls up at odd hours of the day and night to discuss things such as whether James Brown really did work very hard in the entertainment industry. So having maintained a sterling grip on sobriety for an entire afternoon, we then started drinking Bow (is there a rule about never mixing grape and apples? It certainly felt like I was getting my five a day) with Ronnie and his ‘very good friend’ before heading off for a rather loud curry where Ronnie made an impact on the waiting staff, the other diners and us with his unique views on all kinds of topics, mostly involving large amounts of swearing. Having survived that, we then headed back to Amy’s and in a fit of inspiration decided to watch R Kelly’s Hip Hopera ‘Trapped in the Closet’. I have to confess that I only saw chapters 1 – 14 before I succumbed to the call of the wine, more wine, rum, Bow, more wine, more Bow and sundry other substances and passed out on the sofa. However, I saw enough to know that this is one of the finest works of cinematography in the known universe, and is fully deserving of an entry all of its own. However, given that I have already admitted that I didn’t make it to the end, I should probably experience the rest (‘watch’ is such an inadequate word) before I pass comment. The Boy Wonder dragged me off the sofa and into bed at about 4.30 and while I was surprisingly resilient in the face of his attempts to get my jeans off, I then felt a little tiny bit like absolute hell on Saturday. Having vetoed the café breakfast in favour of some Lucozade and then a rather fragile journey home on the train, I was then reminded of one of the many reasons I married the Boy Wonder – we came home, he installed me on the sofa, where he allowed me to lie on him feeling peculiar and encouraged me to drink tiny sips of water and snooze. He then (and this is the heroic part) went out and got me a McDonalds, which has always been my staple hangover cure, and which perked me up sufficiently to actually move from my prone position and attempt a little light wandering around and more telly watching. The Boy Wonder would have lived up to his name was it not for the fact that I was physically incapable of experiencing wonder, stuck as I was in a state of slight nausea and a headache. However, he is the perfect hangover nurse, so I might consider hiring him out to those less fortunate than myself, although only on days when I can actually move on my own…