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Give me a dance floor and red bull and nobody is sexier

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I’m one of those unfortunate souls who have the remarkable ability to remember, that which is best forgotten.  Other people say things like “I don’t know how I got home”.  It doesn’t matter how inebriated I am, how unable to co-ordinate my feet or control my tongue or negotiate corners – I can remember every humiliating moment in crushing detail as soon as I start to sober up.  Four gin and tonics and one Dom Pedro later (the Dom Pedro definitely gave me the hoof) on Sunday and I was into a debate on religion versus reality with all the fervor of a self-declared genius.  Give me a dance floor and red bull and nobody is sexier, give me gin and I become confrontational and aggressive and right! What I may have lacked in argument (somewhat slurred and occasionally illogical) I made up with volume and impassioned gesticulation (vaguely threatening) and I seem to recall my husband sidling past discreetly once or twice (also hoping to avoid a fight), asking me between clenched teeth to tone it down. Nevertheless I was convinced I was making a dent in the other person’s argument or I think “sway” was the word that came to mind.  He remained calm throughout (with a few feeble attempts to change the subject which I skillfully swatted aside – by this time almost having a chat with myself), amazing that he bothered to maintain the conversation at all, what with me carrying on with all the disgusted self righteousness that gin can muster – note I say nothing of dignity.

Later the same night I relived each painful moment, sucking on my large bottle of water and trying to swallow my peanut butter sandwich with no saliva, my brain the size of a pea rattling in my skull. In younger years this tried and tested remedy was reserved for the morning after (whether because I partied longer, or I was just younger I’m not sure). Movement, light and noise are very painful at this stage and a combination may result in many happy hours renewing acquaintance with the bathroom tiles. Anyway, days have passed, and I have managed to write this now without blushing (although I still feel ridiculous) and the gin and tonic has been untouched in the fridge since then – my husband’s tongue-in-cheek offers to mix me a drink have been scorned. I am obviously too old for the “hair-of-the-dog” trick – if it ever worked (I think he just likes to watch me go green).

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