Tomorrow’s diary entry …


“Ow! Bastard!!” Someone’s poking me in the eyes with needles. 
I can’t make them stop. 
As I become inured to the agony under my eyelids, I’m grateful for numbness. I turn away from the bright light. That might help. A sound in the room.
“Why the hell did you do that?” I manage to mutter. 
Marion says ‘I thought you’d want to wake up.” 
‘No, I don’t… Did I say I wanted to?” 
“We open the curtains every morning. What’s so different about today?”
“I feel terrible.”
“Must be those cocktails you had last night.”
“I don’t drink cocktails.” I slur. “I drink beer. Man’s drink.. Why?” 
“Why what?” 
“Cocktails…” Even the thought revolts me.
“Something to celebrate, I guess. Your team won.“
“Which one?” I’ve several teams I support, based on their performances. 
“England”, the Scotswoman wielding the curtains blurts out.
She’s brought in my tea. I smell bergamot and can’t keep my throat from opening like a drain. 
My wife leaves me to the smell of my own vomit.
But England won, I remember and weakly manage to punch some air …

If you’ve a strong stomach, why not read another alcohol tinged story?