I said yesterday that the three-day orgy of food (a.k.a. family Christmas feasts) was over, that I’d eaten enough for twelve Ethiopians and drunk enough for four Irish navvies, etc. etc. etc.
I lied.
Or rather, I forgot that we’d promised to take Brother-In-Law for some Mexican food for lunch yesterday.
And that we’d planned on dinner with Doc Russia and his exquisite wife later last night.
So of course we did both: quesadillas, fajitas, chimichangas and so on, accompanied by the usual margaritas (at Gloria’s); and beef short ribs, pineapple sponge cake with ice cream, and whiskey plus red wine (at Doc’s).
I now look and feel like Monty Python’s Mr. Creosote, understand how an actual python feels when it’s swallowed, say, a large pig, and I have lost the will to live.
Here’s a picture of a gun to keep you all happy:
And please excuse me while I go off and groan for a few hours.
