Woke with a start at 5am today – mouth dry, Fleetwood Mac still blaring in my ipod headphones. It all came back slowly: the cab ride home, leaving my bike chained outside a Surry Hills bar, more bottles of wine than I care to remember. There was collateral damage. My favourite Blair Waldorf headband, nowhere to be found; my dignity presumably in the same unknown location. Work was a trial; naturally, of all days, today would be the one where construction downstairs rendered our office full of pounding hammers for hours on end.
That was when my sister mentioned the hogs. What on earth do you mean, the hogs, I asked. The Hang Over Guilts, she replied. Sure enough, as I counted down the minutes until lunch and continued refining procrastination like it’s an olympic sport, I felt quite awful about my professional performance. Not that I’d change my Sunday – catching up with old friends and new friends, it was a delicious day. But I will be filing “the hogs” for future use.
Sending a special birthday shout-out to a racy rednut…
Clare Fletcher 