Pickled

In a somewhat uncharacteristic lapse, I had rather too much to drink last night.

Normally Sunday is classified as a school night, and little or no alcohol is consumed. But I missed my Saturday evening Martini due to driving duties, and so awarded myself one last night instead. Clever wags might add that it's half term here in Wales this week, so last night wasn't a school night at all. It matters very little; rules are there to be occasionally broken.

Of more concern was the terrible hangover I had this morning. Or to be more accurate, the terrible hangover that kicked in around about midday. When I got up at eight I was still really quite drunk, which is odd, as I hadn't had that much, and I felt fine when I went to bed. It's not like I fell asleep in the armchair, or couldn't get my trousers off or anything. I guess I mudt be turning into a lightweight.

Consequently today has been one of those wasted days, when things don't get done. Or if they do get done, they get done badly and have to be done again later. I've mostly been staring at the computer screen trying to kick some shape into a short story I've been working on. It's a bit like constipation. You sit there for hours and things will eventually come out, but it's not pleasant, pretty or easy. I'll probably end up flushing it all, too.

Tonight the booze is firmly locked away. I shall have me an early night and hopefully wake tomorrow refreshed and ready to go. Meantime, here's a joke one of the secretaries at work sent me:

An Englishman decided to write a book about famous churches around the world.

So he bought a train ticket and took a trip to Plymouth, thinking that he would start by working his way across England from South to North. On his first day he was inside a church taking photographs when he noticed a golden telephone mounted on the wall with a sign that read "£10,000 per call".

The Englishman, being intrigued, asked a priest who was strolling by what the telephone was used for. The priest replied that it was a direct line to heaven and that for £10,000 you could talk to God. The Englishman thanked the priest and went along his way.

Next stop was in Worcester. There, at a very large cathedral, he saw the same golden telephone with the same sign under it. He wondered if this was the same kind of telephone he saw in Plymouth and he asked a nearby nun what its purpose was. She told him that it was a direct line to heaven and that for £10,000 he could talk to God. "O.K., thank you," said the Englishman.

He then travelled to Salisbury, Leeds, Carlisle and Newcastle. In every church he saw the same golden telephone with the same "£10,000 per call" sign under it.

The Englishman, upon leaving Newcastle decided to travel to Wales to see if the Welsh had the same telephone. He arrived in Swansea, and again, in the first church he entered, there was the same golden telephone, but this time the sign under it read "40p per call."

The Englishman was surprised so he asked the priest about the sign.

"Father, I've travelled all over England and I've seen this same golden telephone in many churches. I'm told that it is a direct line to Heaven, but in England the price was £10,000 per call. Why is it so cheap here?"

The priest smiled and answered, "You're in Wales now, son - it's a local call"

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