Monday morning, nothing manic about me. Strange dreams last night, the sweats, maybe the DTs. Probably not.
The day termed Brain Day was a weekend event.
Palace (Friday evening), non existent party in Harold’s Cross (late Friday night), back to Cowzer and Emma’s (early hours Saturday), scotch for breakfast (Saturday morning), to McGeoughs for the football (Saturday day), on to the Porter House (Saturday night).
Such should not be the plight of man.
Normally I have the constitution of a bull - even the 19 pubs of Dingle presented no serious challenge to me - but Jaysus this malaise just won’t shift. Details of actual conversations, drinks and remedies are patchy, coming back to me at irregular interludes via my own brain and text messages.
The TV is on but I’m not watching, the kitten’s meowing but he’s not getting in. My stomach is heaving and I’m barely keeping it together.
Next year it falls on a Saturday.