This weekend seems to have disappeared quite quickly - partly due to some quite disgraceful over indulgence on Friday night. Our neighbour celebrated her 40th birthday with a wonderful and lively party in a local community centre and then we all went back to her house. My long suffering husband took our daughter home at around 2am and I said I'd be home in 10 minutes when I'd finished my glass of wine.
Err, well, it was actually 8.17 when I rolled in. I always suspected disaster if I were ever allowed anywhere near a karaoke machine. I always had dreams of pop stardom as a child and I had a great time belting out the likes of Total Eclipse of the Heart. Rumours of windows shattering in the street have, fortunately, proved to be entirely unfounded, but the problem with even a relatively small excess of alcohol is that you think you are a lot better at things than you actually are.
Boy, was I ill on Saturday. Not quite as bad as the neighbour who missed his daughter's birthday party, but bad enough.
The tragic thing is that I was secretly proud that there was life in the old dog yet. The slightly worrying thing is that there are 3 more 40th birthdays in the street, mine included, in the next 6 months.