Last night was spent at a wedding, where the plan was to get so Wang Chunged along with everyone else in order to guarantee my chances of being Lionel Richied.
As it was, the only thing on tap was water, and I was stuck sitting next to a guy who was so lactose intolerant that I didn’t dare breathe the words ‘cheese’ or ‘Gromit.’ I made up for it however in eating my weight in cake, and even managed to scoff a slice of the wedding variety before it was stabbed and nibbled by the bride and groom.
But the truth was that all the Bomb Alaskas in the world couldn’t shake the hangover as I stood there by the kitchen sink wallowing in the truth that I had gone to a wedding and failed to pick up an overnight husband. This morning I should have been deeply immersed in a love hangover, or at least love sleepover, but as I stood there with cold feet waiting for the kettle to scream, all I felt was the three kilos over that I was since this time yesterday.
Ms must-only-attend-licensed-weddings-from-now-on M.
