Clare survives another Wednesday night dinner.

I wasn’t ready when the clock radio burst into life this morning. I groaned, then rolled over in a smear of mascara and perspiration and blinked a badger eye at the doglets. It was time for the morning after assessment.

How bad?

My head did not instantly split in two as I sat up in bed. Yay! Woohoo! So moderation actually does work. I have been hungover. Hung-over like Lindsay Lohan’s "exhausted and dehydrated" and its time to face the fact that while I might be sporting a huge Peter Pan complex my liver is not a teenager anymore. And I have a pretty strict rule about never calling sick for a hangover. It just seems wrong to take a duvet day for something I did to myself. Willingly.

Last night wasn’t a special occasion other than, oh yes, Wednesday night dinner. The best part of these evenings, apart from my legendary skills in the kitchen (nothing like Arbchick’s skills in the keetchen), is the laughter. My friends are funny. Given, not always intentionally, but very funny. Unfortunately I may have to look into the long term viability of Wednesday night dinners. It’s highly likely that Winnie is not planning on being in it for the long haul.

As I stood brushing my teeth this morning, little pieces of the night started drifting back. Then I was laughing so hard I was choking and foaming at the mouth. A minty-fresh rabies case. I had to stop brushing and breathe before I could finish the job.

The rest of today is not going to be nearly as much fun.