Excess.

Shamed by Mags into cleaning the bottom of my fridge, all I did before filling it up with the morning’s recent supermarket shop was empty the shelves and give the interior a bit of a Cif-fing. No big deal. It was a bit awkward; I was crouched and leaning in and reaching uncomfortably but really, it wasn’t exactly hard manual labour, nevertheless I have been left with crippling back pain which has resulted in my taking to my bed. I haven’t taken to my bed for an awfully long time. Not until recently anyway. Now suddenly this is the second time in a week. The first time was, I suppose, my fault entirely but it was such a good summer ball. Hubby looked as ever, immaculate. I felt movie star glamorous in my evening dress, my hair turned out alright, my shoes were comfortable without being ugly, Dad was sleeping over to keep an eye on the teenagers, which also meant Hubby and I could stay ‘on board’. We were, to coin a rather vulgar, Mancunian phrase, ‘up for it’. Our joie de vivre was helped along by summer drinks beforehand with the Captain, his wife and our friends. We continued with our merrymaking by way of pre-dinner champagne, continuing throughout dinner with copious bottles of wine.
After leaving the table all sorts of entertainment was provided and my prowess on a simulated surf board was not humiliatingly awful, neither was my shieing of a ball at the coconuts, my having to carry two for the rest of the evening, evidence of my success. We danced and danced to the phenomenal Freshly Squeezed, boogied to the disco and finally at 3.30am, went to bed. I will accept that up until dinner I had not heeded the government’s advice to drink responsibly and, had I continued in that vein, would no doubt have disgraced myself by either falling over or being sick, or God forbid, doing both simultaneously. From 11.30pm until 3.30am however, I only drank water, gallons of it, so that when I eventually went to bed, I was in high spirits and full of beans having attended the best ball, ever. When Hubby woke me at 9am however, to join our friends for a post ball debrief over breakfast, I thought I was going to die.
“Leave me alone” I moaned, “Just leave me rest in peace”. But he was having none of it. Dragging me out of bed and applying a variety of garments to my body, my whining all the while, Hubby then took me by the hand and pulled me along various corridors and stairwells until we finally reached the dining hall.
Mags, who had had to be carried to bed hours before me was tucking into black pudding and fried eggs, a broad grin on her face.
“Mornin’ Alice. Fantastic ball huh?”, she said with obscene chirpiness. I sat down and, whilst terribly bad manners to do so, put my elbows on the table and then with undoubtedly far worse manners, buried my head in my hands.
“Mornin’”, I groaned.
“Full breakfast mam?” asked a steward. I shook my head and shivered.
“Not on your nelly”, I said with a very small voice, “Just toast and tea please”.
“Non-handler”, said Hubby, dipping a large, greasy sausage into his egg yolk. I was feeling increasingly queasy.
“Hello Alice”, said a passing parson, slapping me across the back with characteristic bonhomie, “Excellent dancing last night not to mention your fine pair of coconuts!”. Not wanting to crush his feelings for not laughing at his saucy joke, I managed a weak smile.
“Not feeling your usual self old girl?”, he asked, roaring with laughter.
“You could say that”, I replied. I nibbled on some dry toast, and then left the table. Hubby and I gathered our belongings and drove home in silence. I offered my thanks to Dad, gave him a hug, relieved him of his duties, climbed the stairs, stripped off, then burrowed under my duvet and stayed there, all day. It being a Saturday Hubby, although feeling rather jaded himself, was at least at home and capable of walking both dog and daughters.
Today though he is at work and once again I am confined to bed. Perhaps it is God’s retribution. A question of ‘You want to stay in bed all day? Then I’ll show you my girl”. I am in agony and frustrated. The aforementioned dog and daughters were going stir-crazy until Mags saved the day, she also drove me to the doctor, who, left perplexed by my symptoms could only offer hard drugs. Plenty and of an astonishing assortment: Valium, codeine, ibuprofen and paracetamol vie for my attention. It remains to be seen what happens next; I’ve dallied with the drink and the drugs this week, all that remains in the sex and rock and roll. With my back in its current state, one of those recreational activities is out of the question. I may as well just listen to my i-Pod.