The Carbover

Woke up at 6.30 this morning. There was a bird.

A particular bird.

You know they say some birds, given time, learn to tune their songs to mimic car alarms?
This was a bird which had either tuned itself to mimic alarm clocks, or the clanging of tiny dwarf-hammers on rock and gold, prior to a bunch of bearded diminutive miners breaking into a robust chorus of "Heigh Ho, Heigh ho, it's off to work we go..."

Little bastard.

We managed to get back to sleep (or at least I did). Then d was leaning over me.
"Wake up Sleepyhead," she teased gently, kissing me.
"Unnnnnnfno," I moaned, pulling the sheets over my pounding head.
"C'mon sweetie," she coaxed, "time to get up..."
It was inconceivable that such a thing could be true.
"Wha'time'sit?" I managed.
"7.45," she said.
My eyes snapped painfully open.
"In what universe is that 'time to get up'...on a Sunday?" I croaked, feeling like I was a five-pound note in a wallet - folded and crinkled and worth next-to-nothing.
She laughed good-naturedly.
"Everyone's up," she explained. I wanted to retort that that was their bad bloody luck and it was no concern of mine, but my tongue felt thick in my head and I couldn't get the words.
"And they're being quiet so as not to wake you," she added.
"Good," I managed. "Thank 'em for me..." Then I pulled the covers over my head again.
She, I'm sure, rolled her eyes at me.
"Uppy uppy, little guppy," she said. I've no idea why, it's just something she says when I'm behaving like a two-year-old.

Which is often, now I think about it.

"Nooooo...." I moaned. "Feel crap..."
"That's not their fault," she said reasonably. "Don't ruin their Sunday..."
"Sunday doesn't begin for at least another couple of hours," I said, with what I thought was peerless reasoning.
"I'll get Chip to wake you up," she threatened sweetly.

Chip is Lee's dog. He used to be Lee & Rebecca's dog, when Lee and Rebecca were 'Lee & Rebecca', but now they're just 'Lee, and Rebecca,' he's Lee's dog, though Rebecca, I'm sure, has unlimited access rights.
Chip, bless him, is stark raving bonkers, and in the new environment of West Wales, he was barking at most anything - other dogs especially, but people, ice-cream shops, seaweed...just anything that took his fancy.

"You wouldn't dare," I growled.

Lesson to husbands, boyfriends, and casual-fucks everywhere...
Don't say that. Don't ever say that. You're pretty much sealing you're own fates.

"Oh Chhhhhhipppp!" called d, her voice full of encouragement. The hound came bounding through the cottage where we were staying, bouncing up the stairs like Tigger on a pogo stick. Arriving in the room, he looked from the bed to d, uncertain of his permission.
"Go on Chip, go get him, goo'boy..." she encouraged. He bounced on me, licking my bald head as though I was made of beef.
"Get the Hell off me, Dog, or I'll punch you in the face!" I snarled from under the blankets. He bounced off again, and buggered off downstairs again. I scrambled, bitchingly, into clothes, and went downstairs. There, I scowled at my friends for a good hour, while staring vacantly into space and chain-drinking coffees.
"What the Hell's up with you?" asked Rebecca.
"'s' a carbover," I grumbled.
"A what-now?"
"Like a hangover, but without the alcohol," I grunted. All the gorgeous Indian food from the night before had kicked the living crap out of me overnight. My head was pounding, my concentration was fleeting, my mood was foul.
"Awwww, has you got a carbover 'en?" scoffed Rebecca.
"Shut up!" I growled. "'s a real thing..."

As the day wound on, the carbover cleared and I became able to play with others. We all made breakfast together, which was both pleasant and special - the kind of thing that happens in films where old friends get together.

Had lunch in Pendine Sands, feeling the Tapeworm roar, and pootled about in Amroth for a while. Then decided we should come home - d has an interview for a fantastic job on Tuesday and has to prep for it, and I wanted to come home and...well, do this, frankly.

The Tapeworm feeling absolutely refuses to let me go - want to eat everything I see - for tastes and textures and the feeling of chewing, the delight of inhaling and the joy of swallowing. I just...want...everything.

Is this the way to assure a significant loss on Tuesday, we ask ourselves. Then we make an eyebrow-raised face at ourselves, to show 'get a grip'ness. Probably not, being the point. Fairly regulation week coming up though - only excursion is on Saturday, down to Swansea and to visit Karen 'Slinky', which I'm looking forward to. And of course, tomorrow's Monday, the cheating bastard's tool of choice for those seeking positive results on Tuesday.

Time to start planning some significant carbunders, I think. This thing has to be shifted bodily...