Hmm. Drunk.

Ish. Drunk-ish. Not yet at the stage where I can remember the Lounge, and then remember Flagstaff Gardens, but not remember travelling between the two. But sufficiently tipsy to converse with delightful goth people at Club UK's all-Depeche Mode night. She had gorgeous, gorgeous make-up. The stuff I could never ever possible achieve. Even with fair warning and a run-up.

And now I'm just sitting up, paddling away at the internet in the hope that an hour extra of staying up might mean the difference between being Our Lady of Shit Personified and only being mildly grumpy tomorrow.

Why why why am I cursed with such horrendous hangovers? I was such a good girl for most of my youth.