Feed me, Seymour!

[caddyman]

All things considered, it is not inconceivable that I may have marginally overindulged in the pub last night. Not to the point of steaming delirium or staggering intoxication or anything, but perhaps one over the eight.

I am not hungover in that klaxons-blaring-every-time-a-moth-farts sort of way and bright lights are not drilling through my retinas into my cortex. What I have got is that slightly queasy feeling that makes me think of slow-turning cement mixers deep down in my giblets. I am also fearsome hungry: I have just scoffed my sandwiches an hour ahead of schedule and I am looking at my bag of salt and vinegar French Fries with the sort of hungry expression that would make small animals quail.

In an hour or so, I may have to go out and buy another sandwich. Not a big one, but something just substantial enough to keep me ticking over this afternoon, especially since I have just cracked and opened the French Fries.

I am still hungry, but that cement mixer feeling has dissipated. I must now find something else to grumble about.