Crunch time

When I was tucking into my petit dejeuner this morning, my companion supposed that I might have a hangover. This I vehemently denied, as hangovers are something that happen to poums and lightweights. But as I sit at my desk after a long day at work reading poetry 'imeansubbin', it occurs to me that, yes, I did have a hangover this morning, and it is the absence of a hangover now that proves this to me.

Last night was WILD and CRAZY, in the sense that it only took 19 emails to arrange rather than the customary 243. There was talk of going to the Jerusalem Tavern, which should be a great pub, steeped as it is in history and gently varnished oak, but DUDUDURRRRR, it doesn't serve cider. Ale yes, wine yes, whiskey yes but no cider, despite the quite literally hundreds of recipes there are that combine Jerusalem artichokes and the appley goodness.

So, what's a girl to do? I emailed my pub guru ("Some people can write poetry or play chess. Or public speak. Or play the euphonium. I am good at pubs.") and we ended up at the The Kings, where I once saw this man. The Three Kings does a nice line in Scrumpy Jack on tap and I felt like a princess among men as at least two of my companions tucked into a lovely pinta or two.

Task for tomorrow: start investigating home brewing.