I'm off to a friend's 50th birthday party this evening. It's in a rather nice pub in a rather nice part of town. That's all good then, 'eh? The trouble is today is Friday. That doesn't sound like a major hurdle in black and white, but it is.
I'll level with you: I've reached that stage in a man's affairs when he can no longer sustain a hangover. Actually, that's not strictly true. I can tolerate them, but only if they occur at very specific times, on a Friday for example. I'll quite happily shift a few quarts of Guinness with friends on a Thursday evening if the opportunity to break bread emerges. It's just a matter of crawling through Friday in the office, which is like a day off in most offices these days anyway. Everyone turns up in mufti, and mentally everyone's brought his toys along so there's no real work to be done. It's like the last day of term in an infants' school.
But the very idea of being hungover on a Saturday fills me with dread. Saturday is sacrosanct. I rise early, fetch some bread, make the breakfast and then spend 3 hours gnawing it. This is generally followed by a hundred minutes' noodling on a ukulele.
In the afternoon I potter. I used to loathe pottering and all it stood for when I was young and callow. Absolutely hate it. In those days, had someone invited me to a party on a Friday, I've have been champing at the beer bit by about 11:30am, and would have given full reign to my crapulent instincts once at the bar, getting what PG Wodehouse referred to as "a might polluted" in the process. Saturday could take care of itself.
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