I can go anywhere

Right now, I'm recovering from my first shore leave from the Midgets - well, pretty much ever. I stress the word recovering. I might tentatively suggest I've developed the mother of all hangovers. So bad was it, I only started to get the hangover halfway through watching the divine Jeff Stelling this afternoon on my tellybox.

I had a 16 hour pass, hoards of plans and people I was going to meet up with, starting at a friend's leaving do for an hour and then moving along to my next hot date. I was going to have one or two pints and then hook up with the next contender, with the intention to keep on going to fulfil my faux Ferris Bueller fantasies. I would be out of there by 8pm latest.

11pm, I was still there. I have no idea how much I drank. I don't remember drinking more than three pints. I don't remember huge chunks of my evening. I'm fairly sure I was abusive to at least eight people, if not many more.

The highlight was tripping home via the District line (thanks Emma and bad luck for getting the short straw), to arrive at my flat in Hornchurch. That I lived in 4 years ago. For some reason, the new inhabitants weren't too happy about getting a late night visitor.

I arrived at my actual home at 3 am this morning, having got a cab to right the 25 miles out of my way that I'd travelled. My arrival was not greeted with the fanfare I'd hoped - I received a bollocking for being an utter muppet (fair point) and not keeping myself safe.

At this point, I am still too scared to look at my mobile to see who or what I have or haven't done, or indeed texted. My head has only just stopped throbbing, and the small men who were in my head with their pneumatic drills appear to have ceased their construction work.

Liz - I am so very sorry.

As I say, given the benefit of shore leave, I can go anywhere. At least twice. Of course, the second time is generally to apologise...