Bellyaching

Last night I went to an Awards Dinner, so today I rang in sick.

Only a person who doesn’t drink could get away with that. Our company got nominated for an award, I was (to my surprise) one of the staff asked to go along to fill our allotted table of ten and I woke up this morning with stomach pains. I still got up at the right time, then thought “nah, I can’t” and went back to bed.

There was a champagne reception for an hour when we arrived, four bottles of wine on our table when we sat down to dinner and the bar was still open when I left at 12.30, and if I’d had even one drink I’d have forced myself into work this morning even if it meant throwing up on the bus driver. Nobody wants to be the bloke who misses work because he was drinking at a do the night before, it’s the career-development equivalent of photo-copying your bum.

Whereas when the guy who drank water all night rings in sick, muttering about the warm feta cheese starter (I really don’t know why I ate it, I can’t stand stuff like that) then everyone says “aw, poor him, he must be feeling really terrible”.

I’ve slept most of the day and when I woke up the pain was pretty much gone. So I was given chicken soup.

All women are born knowing of the restorative properties of chicken soup. Miss Ugg the cavegirl

knew it. Ma Walton knew it. Mrs Tin knows it.

So I was force-fed loving offered chicken soup. Now I have stomach pains again.

I have discovered that long gigantic belches help to relieve the pain. I have also discovered that I am not to do that again.

It’s going to be a long evening.