Valentine's Day Massacre

Card from my beloved?

No.

Romantic gift from the chosen one?

No.

Husband remained in the house and in my life only because we'd agreed beforehand not to bother with commercial celebration this year. I mean, there's only so many fluffy teddies holding red hearts you can accommodate before they start to lose their appeal. [I like what Michael McIntyre said about the Valentine card for his wife, in which he wrote, "I still love you, please see last year's card for details."]

I asked only for five kisses during the course of the day - I'm a real low-maintenance kinda gal. Oh, and dinner in my favourite restaurant, which didn't send the Yorkshireman into spasms of panic because the restaurant in question is actually home (no taxis, no annoying people at the next table, no CPR to administer to the wallet-clutching husband when the bill arrives).

We went to Sainbury's to pick up the ingredients for a romantic candlelit meal.

"Plonk?" Hubs said.

"Moron," I replied, thinking we were in play-mode.

"No," he tutted, "Shall we get a bottle of plonk?"

If you were in Sainsbury's in Selly Oak on Saturday afternoon and you saw two people standing wide-eyed in front of the wine display looking for all the world like two wallabies caught in the headlights of a oncoming truck and muttering, "Which... What... Should we... Perhaps..." that was us. What we know about wine you could carve onto a grain of sand and mount on the point of a needle.

So we went mad and chose something completely different, something that had rum in it, and pineapple juice, and some coconut milk, and other stuff of the alcoholic variety. 14% proof it was.

Two shot glasses before dinner and I was rapping I Will Always Love You in front of the bathroom mirror using a bottle of Pantene Classic Care shampoo as a microphone.

Bladdered? Oh yeah.

The condition of being somewhat intoxicated was further exacerbated by the opening of a bottle of champagne we found in a cupboard (yeah, just found it in a cupboard, bizarre). This was quite recklessly followed by several fingers of whisky in a really large glass, some of which actually managed to reach my mouth.

After a meal lovingly prepared by one's husband, we watch Mamma Mia and, inebriated beyond measure, I was Anni-Frid Lyngstad - much to Hubs' and the dog's amazement (and barely concealed horror). No idea what the neighbours thought of the high-pitched wailing coming from my house that night, but all hopes of ever appearing on the X-Factor have sadly been laid to rest.

It's quite strange to stagger through your own kitchen on the way to the toilet, crashing into the fridge, the sink and the washing machine and laughing hysterically at the amassed collection of injuries. The last time I was so sloshed was at some dire corporate event a decade ago, but its not good behaviour once you're passed 30 (oh stop laughing at the back there, 30 is a perfectly acceptable number to use). Fun though.

It's also quite strange to think, "Oooh, look at me, I'm really drunk, chuckle chuckle hic burp" without having any consideration whatsoever for the hangover that will inevitably follow.

And follow it did.

Boy, did it ever.

I still haven't recovered.

Brummie Broad - Here every Tuesday (alcohol consumption allowing)
Brummie Blogs - Recovering there rest of time