Ask A Glass of Water

I'm determined to get into this pub thing: hanging out with friends over a drink or two - you know, socialising. Being normal people.

Having spent my teens and twenties as a miserably shy geek girl, however, I've never really grokked all those mysterious things other girls did like wear make-up and gossip and fuck boys and coordinate handbags with shoes. And not having grown up in Australia, I knew even less about drinking.

Last time I went pubbing (also the first time) I stupidly said I'd have a beer, too, along with everyone else. Four sips. And a bag of chips to get rid of the after-taste. Ee-yeuch. People enjoy this?

So this time I wouldn't have beer. I asked the bartender what I could have that wasn't beer (and that wasn't just a fizzy drink - pointless going to a pub for a lemon squash, right?), and she recommended a Bacardi Breezer with lime. Nice pick. I can really do this, I thought as I drank the stuff, I can drink at a pub and just chill and have a pleasant afternoon.

Now, alcohol is a poison. However attractively flavoured with lime juice. And since most people I know have been drinking the stuff since they were old enough to lie about their age, that means they've built up a certain amount of immunity to it. They can handle moderate amounts of alcohol, say one standard drink, over lunch and not fall over.

Me, I get drunk on half a glass of red wine. So.

Halfway through my Breezer, I felt the cotton wool start padding my grey cells. It didn't feel so bad. Five minutes after finishing the bottle (remember, one standard drink) I was flushed. I could feel the warmth in my cheeks. It still didn't feel too bad.

We left the pub, and the headache began. Then the nausea. And for some damned reason, the flatulence. I was not happy.

Skribe thought it was funny, but then he always finds my misery hilarious.

I was, of course, hungover, and it being the middle of a hot and humid afternoon didn't help. The hot chippies, jam tart, and bottled water didn't help much either. Being dehydrated, and adding a diuretic into my system essentially meant I would have to put a whole lot more liquid back into the system to wash out the alcohol.

Largely all I've done since coming home is drink water and sleep. At one point, I could feel my eyeballs throbbing. Weird. I still have a headache whenever I'm upright, and I'm getting really tired of all those little side trips to expel all that water I've been ingesting. And I still have a headache.

Skribe informs me that we're going pubbing again next Friday. He reckons I need more practice drinking. That I'll get used to it soon enough.

And I find myself thinking, as must have every other novice drinker out there since the first alcoholic beverage was fermented, that it's not drinking that's the problem - it's being drunk. Why, what's wrong with being drunk? Douglas Adams said it best: Ask a glass of water.