Pimm’s O’Clock

Last Friday Felix had his first “proper” teenage party, at home.

And what fun it was to meet such an array of vastly different young people – the hair, the fashion, the humour, the exuberance - I was in awe. According to some of the girls I am cool (high praise indeed) and Felix (despite his earlier attempts to book me into a b&b for the night) told me that I’d blended in perfectly – not that I did show my face that much.

Thus I am reminiscing about spectacular hangovers. Mostly brought on by the fact that my bedroom is next to one of the bathrooms, and at four in the morning, just by sound of regurgitation, I knew exactly who of Felix’s friends was throwing up when. Felix came to see me at about six to relate a most astonishing discovery: “Mama, every time I throw up I feel better.” By eight o’clock he was as good as new.

Some 20 years ago I suffered the worst hangover of my whole life at the hands of a generous friend buying me cocktail after cocktail on the promenade of the harbour of Puerto Banus (think Spain, think yachts, think money, think whatever takes your fancy). Ever since I am as suspicious of cocktails (other than Martinis) as a cat circling a bowl of milk knowing full well she is just about to be poisoned. I can’t stand the stuff: It lulls you into a false sense of security; all that fruity taste whilst knocking back high % Vol.

And yes, David, you might have gone underground, and you are a wonderful guy without guile - how big is your gut now? – but revenge will be mine, one day. Make sure you’ll live long enough. Needless to say, my then husband had no sympathy for me whatsoever. In fact he offered me breakfast – to add cruelty to injury. It’s amazing what the human body can withstand.

Early this morning I fancied a little walk into town rather than taking the car. You see things you’d never be able to notice from the safety of your four wheels. Eight o’clock – two guys and a woman sitting on a bench, beer and cider cans in hand – asking me for some change. I would have liked to have helped out but I only had a card on me. I have a fairly vivid imagination but it doesn’t stretch far enough to begin to comprehend what it must be like to lead a life like that.

And, on this happy note, don’t forget the olives. And, oh yes, one of my proud claims to fame, about two and a half years ago someone created the “Ursula” for me. It is possibly one of the best drinks I have never had.

Feel free to puke into my inbox.

U

PS And who in their right mind would order a “Vicar’s Shandy” (half fino sherry, half lemonade, handful of mint)? As perversions go, this is liquid.