By Kirsty Hird in The Mighty.
There was a time in my not-too-distant past (OK, it was about 17 years ago) when “the morning after the night before” meant a hangover and a trawl through the recesses of my mind in an attempt to recall the events of the previous night. Did I, once again, use the fact that I am a grade 8 flautist to convince the tribute band to let me play the tambourine for them? Did I really stuff sachets of condiments in my boots and re-enact the scene from “Pretty Woman” by asking random men which flavor sauce they wanted? Did my friend unzip the huge inflatable man outside one of the pubs? (As a side note, I have to say that I am ever-grateful for the fact that this all took place before the advent of camera phones and social media.)
Since getting married, having children, moving house and becoming a teacher (i.e. growing up), my escapades have been tamed somewhat. Since getting pneumonia which subsequently caused chronic fatigue syndrome/myalgic encephalomyelitis, my social life has pretty much come to a standstill. Fortunately, I’ve always had a preference for sitting around in my pyjamas drinking wine, so this hasn’t come as too much of a blow to me, certainly not as much some other side effects of being ill such as losing my ability to walk or being well enough to work.
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