Unusually for a Sunday, I did not go for dinner with my Mom. She called to say she had been invited elsewhere (should it be of concern that even my own mother is standing me up now?). To be honest, it came as a bit of a relief. I felt sluggish and mildly hung-over following yesterday’s party. It’s one thing not being good at interacting with strangers, but quite another not being able to interact with your own mother.
I wasted the morning lolling about house, till I could bear my lethargic stupor no more. I decided to join some friends on a bracing afternoon bike ride in the countryside. We did a fair few miles too. The first part of the ride seemed cruel and unrelenting, but the cold wind and the endless pedaling soon seemed to snap me from my hangover.
On the way back, we decided to award our efforts with a pint in a nice warm country pub. We locked our bikes outside next to the bus stop. Escaping the cool air blowing at our shirts which had been dampened by earlier sweat, we took off our restrictive helmets and entered the pub. We settled down at a table by the log fireside. Our tired legs rested whilst we supped at crisp cool glasses of lager. Whist chatting and laughing together by the warmth of the fire all seemed good with the world. I felt better about myself having made the effort to do some exercise.
We couldn’t stay for long. The dusk was looming and we needed to get back before dark. Even though there had only been time for one drink, as I stood up to leave, I felt enveloped by a small warm buzz of alcohol. The hair of the dog had truly relaxed me.
As we left the pub could hear the distant rumble of a bus approaching. And inside, there was a small strange part of me that hoped the bikes had been stolen.
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