You open your eyes, slowly.
Not too bad.
No instinctive shying from the light.
There doesn’t seem to be any nausea, although you won’t really know until you try to get up and do something.
You definitely need to piss, and your mouth feels powder-dry, but it’s possible you might be able to address those needs without last night’s mixed seafood basket resurfacing.
Bathroom, kitchen, a glass of water absorbed rather than drunk, and then you go back to bed, because you don’t want to push your luck.
After a brief doze, you find yourself actively craving a cuppa, and… is that actually a hunger pang? Tea first. See if that stays down.
Can’t be, surely?
The Orval for round five was pushing it, and then you then stayed for a sixth, enjoying it with the grim knowledge of impending doom.
Than again, thinking about it, you had sense enough to stop at the chippy on the way home, and drink two pints of water before going to bed, and to take another pint up to bed.
Or perhaps you’re still drunk. Yeah, might be that. Take it easy. Brace yourself for the coming storm.
A few hours later, breakfast and lunch conquered, you start to dare to believe that you might really have got away with it.
The thought of a pint later that afternoon is not actually unappealing.
But perhaps, as the Hangover Gods have smiled on you today, you shouldn’t push your luck.