Bearded hangover

Today I suffered disproportionately for my commitment to the booze; two and a half pints shouldn't put me over the line, but I was wobbly today.

I had to get my beard trimmed today, which normally would be a pleasant distraction from the cares of the world, reclined back in a barber's chair, at peace. With a hangover, this transformed into fifteen minutes of hell, with a wizened devil plucking hairs from my face at random, chuckling away. I don't think it can be right to use a nose hair trimmer to tidy up my moustache, it's not that long yet.

Or to use tweezers on my cheeks.

Luckily, a beard doesn't take too long to trim, so I could scuttle away from the Mandarin Oriental and return to my bed. Or I could have done, if I didn't have to go and spend two hours yelling and being thrown through the air. Curse having pastimes that require doing things at the weekend.

Then again, a pastime that requires doing things on Monday mornings is usually called a "job". I'm not going to reorganise Excel spreadsheets for free, you know.