The Lost Day

On Saturday night, James and I shared a perfectly pleasant bottle of white wine over dinner. Then we went out, and over the course of several hours drank 2 pints of beer. I spent all of yesterday wandering around aimlessly in my pyjamas like a confused and frightened old granny, clutching my head and wailing "owwww! Why meeeeee?". James felt like crap too, but was brave enough to escape the flat for a couple of hours in order to go for a pub lunch. This, my friends, is what marathon training does to you. Years and years of training, building up my immunity to alcohol, all ruined as soon as I start running and cut down on the booze. It's just not right.

Now I have rather a lot of acacemic work to catch up on. My dissertation supervisor is coming to see me today (and I have done nothing - NOTHING, I tell you!) and I've an essay on Middlemarch due in tomorrow. James, on the other hand, only has to produce a 20-30,000 work sample in the next couple of weeks...

Now I have to go and face the Faculty Library with a bunch of overdue books. I'm worried they're going to scold me: libraries are such scary places! It's really not easy being Becky sometimes.