Why having a stiff drink is… regrettable

A glass of bourbon anyone?

Occasionally I like to partake of a beverage and talk a load of old toot. It’s a tradition, an old charter or something. As the years roll by, stacking up like something improbable Fifi’s build out of Duplo, it gets harder and harder to do it properly

I’m not talking about getting drunk out of my box and leering at anything that looks vaguely female; after all I am 37 and there are plenty of people out there my age still acting like they’re 17 three nights a week. No, I’m talking about the three or four pints, a gentle stagger home in the small hours, followed by a nice recuperative sleep and some mild regret the next morning.

Most of the time now I keep one eye on the clock and watch how much I drink, aware that I’ll probably be up at or before 6am with a small (and probably damp) boy who wants to beat the living daylights out of various baby toys. And just as backup, Fifi is there with her early starts in case Danger oversleeps.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful or come across as whiney, because that’s not what I’m trying to convey. I certainly get out about 100 million times more frequently than wifey does, so I’ve no complaint there, and she also does about 99% of the night time stuff with the bub. I really couldn’t ask for more, I am a lucky chap. It’s just sometimes, I’d like to quaff four or five pints of scrumpy, and get more than 5 hours sleep.

Perhaps I should record this as a vlog and play it to the kids? Maybe I can get some buy in from them…