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2005-01-10

Yesterday morning I woke up to find my flat looking like a bomb had gone off. Tentative explorations revealed a similar state of affairs inside my skull. Peering around the room, cringing in the sunlight like a cartoon vampire, I spotted the culprit: a half-empty bottle of gin. Spanish gin. I think there�s a reason the Spanish are not renowned for their gin-making abilities (nothing�s better than a pleasant afternoon of bullfighting and G&Ts, no?). I vaguely remember sitting on my bed with one of my colleagues, circa 3 AM, sipping the noxious crap from teacups � sadly the only option for post-work drunkenness. Anyway, ow.

Wednesday I popped up to the increasingly-ironically-named New Forest for a day trip, having been meaning to go for ages. It was gorgeous, if a tad muddy. Wild ponies ate apples out of my hand! I felt like Pocahontas in grimy trainers.

And, on the train, just leaving Southampton, a lovely young man in very hip sunglasses approached me to tell me about his band, The Seen. He gave me a badge for my jacket and offered to put me on the guest list if I ever make it up to London for a show. I love boys in bands: the guest list is their universal weapon of seduction. �Hey, baby � I can get you on the guest list.� (Works for me.) The whole incident was a refreshing change, since I�m usually the chick sitting next to the girl who gets approached by random attractive strangers. Welcome to my inferiority complex.

Well, I�m off to crawl in a hole and moan piteously. Today�s hangover has been brought to you by vodka and lemonade. Oh me!

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