Booyakka. This season of merriment is already beginning to take a noticeable toll on this intrepid Doctor’s constitution. It started about a week ago, in earnest, and apart from the odd night of restrained alcoholic indulgence, it has not stopped since. A few examples of the detrimental effects. On Saturday afternoon, after a Friday night of lager, wine and cava and passionate/drunken love making with a large lady of considerable means, a few hours sleep, a plate of Dr Bruce’s Speciality Scrambled Eggs, it was off to Ivyleaf for a leisurely nine-hole knockabout with a good chum. A means of restoring one’s internal homeostasis before the unavoidable evening’s onslaught of prawn curry and cold lager with honoured invited guests. Now, we must all bear in mind that, unlike many other undertakings, I have never failed to finish a round of golf. Never, despite hailstorms, gale force coastal winds and playing like a fucking muppet. Until last Saturday. The eggs were giving notice of a sudden and glorious return to the light of day, the way they had gone in, and my brow was furrowed and, despite the fresh chill abroad, perspiring. I felt, not entirely unlike I looked, I imagine, bedraggled and barely able to support myself. So I called the whole thing off. Jason was entreatingly perturbed, as he was winning at this point and it would have been the second time ever he would have smote me with mashie niblock. He annoyingly persisted that he was not going to accompany me to the pub for immediate hair of the dog, but would instead finish the round by himself. I was too proud to leave on my lonesome so we agreed this victory would count as four separate wins and soon after we were half way through the first pint of lager. Of course, I will never admit to the four games, not even the one. Quite clearly there were extenuating circumstance.

The second example of my present lifestyle being for one not so advanced in years as me and my twenty-seven occurred this very morn. I awoke with ten minutes to get where I had to be, a journey, via the bathroom and toothbrush, which normally takes about fifteen minutes at least, but I have a flexible remit pertaining to this particular responsibility and so who cares about the odd five minutes of tardiness. Certainly not I. However, when I plugged in my car key to turn over my monstrous 1.5 litre engine, it merely audibly shrugged at me and lay quite dormant. My monstrous car stereo blared at me briefly and then too squeaked out of existence. Brain had not yet fully kicked into gear so I watched myself from outside my body sitting there in my cold and damp car, flummoxed by the lack of progress in any direction and at a loss as to what to do next. Grey matter colluded and thought occurred and I grabbed my parent’s car to jump-start my automobile. And then I was at work, picking up another car with which I would journey afar to the bottom of Devon. Not ten minutes into this adventure, I caught myself slipping off into sleep at about sixty miles per hour. Not acceptable, thought the responsible survivalist in me and so, admittedly only after about an hour and ninety five percent of the journey, I pulled into a service station to catch some winkage. Which I immediately achieved, for about an hour and a half, suitably long to take the edge off my sleepiness. I awoke, refreshed and raring to go, and I slipped the key into the ignition and turned it one notch, on came the stereo, then another, on came the dashboard lights and then the third and the engine farted and went back to sleep. Once again, only freshly arisen from sleepyland, my head failed to fully appreciate the situation it found itself in, for the second time in the same day, nor was it yet able to enjoy this darkly humourous predicament. In all seriousness, it took about two minutes for it all to sink in, as I sat there in the carpark, every wasted second making me later and later for my work appointments. Eventually I came to, swore loudly and crept off to call the RAC who swiftly vanned to my aid.