Mr Sunday Morning

 Went to a party. A summer solstice party. Met some lovely people. It was a fantastic location and there was a distinctly mellow vibe. Deckchairs and white wine and the burble of low impact chat. We didn't jump the fire naked. There was no burning the sacrificial victim in a wicker cage - as the only English person there, I was very glad of that. We sat, we shot the shit, we drank wine. I fell asleep with my sunglasses on. 

It was the most civilised party I'd been to in a long time. No fights. No running mascara. No vomit fountain behind the sofa. Agreeably middle-aged people talking, mostly, about music and cinema. 

We all left as friends in the morning. 

But. 

I've had a hangover for two days. Not a bad one, not really. Not a pukey-bleary-groaning-griping-of-the-guts-was-that-the-lining-of-my-throat sort of thing. A sort of low level tackiness, like I was dirty inside and needed to sweat it out through the pores. Like some distant memory of running had suddenly encoded on my muscles, an almost pleasant but assuredly unearned ache. I had a power nap when I got in, which I never do. I'm resistant to sleeping in the day. I'm mostly resistant to sleeping at night. 

The following day I was still soiled. Jaded as a Japanese Emperor's comb collection. I sat in front of the telly gawping at shows I'd already seen, for the ease and comfort of repetition, the familiar echo of known words and pictures. 

There were no proper hi-jinks at the party. All was sedate and eventually sedated. We didn't burn him. 

And yet here I am. Slumped. I used to be the party-master. The Lord of Misrule. Mr Saturday Night. 

Now I'm Mr Sunday Morning. 

Still brushing my teeth. Constantly brushing my teeth and braced against the sink. Avoiding the shaving mirror.