Night on the tiles

My friend is a landlady for a famous football team. She rents rooms to young trainee players and currently has a teenage Polish goalie and a young striker. I had dinner with her last night and we had rather too many bottles of vino out in her garden. The goalie came home on a high because his team had won and we all went crazy, fencing with my mate's ornamental twigs, then playing football all over the kitchen. He actually said I was good, and I'm old enough to be his gran! I tackled him in my flipflops and managed to get the ball off him a couple of times.

We all crashed around one. I was staying in the room of the young striker who was away for a week. Oh my, did I feel ill. I had such a stomach ache and headache that I lay and clutched my stomach and prayed for deliverance, which eventually came by way of several rather eventful visits to the loo and a lot of clearing up afterwards. As Mr G said when he arrived to run me home (as I couldn't carry the flat screen monitor I'd bought off my friend, plus my overnight bag which had been augmented due to a trip to the charity shop and the purchase of a fat book about fairies for my fairy-crazy daughter), "I have no sympathy, it was self-inflicted."

He was absolutely correct, but all the same, a little bit of sympathy, the production of a sachet of Resolve and a large glass of water, would have gone down very well indeed. As it was, I wasted a glorious summer day by going to bed with the Sunday papers at 1 pm and not emerging again till 6. Now it's bedtime and I feel as refreshed as if I'd just got up. Damn! I shall go and sit in the garden and count moths and get bitten to death by mozzies and with any luck, I might be able to compete with Jacula in the midnight fox pic competition.