Going out with your colleagues is tricky; they are lovely and generous and always want to buy another round. Then you end up home with your partner and a big bottle of baileys, and somehow your cats convinced you to have another drink or two before going to bed.
You play with these damn monsters and have another drink because it is past midnight, and cheesy tv is playing epic fails. You feel so youthful during the good old uni days when you partied all night long and woke up fresh as a daisy.
Unfortunately, in the morning, whimpering liver and cats stomping on the carpet like bloody elephants remind you that you are 40, and it is about time to start to respect your internal organs.
And that’s how Mark became the star of the morning, serving me breakfast in bed and bucket worth of coffee, so those brain cells that were left alive after yesterday could connect, and I can sit and at least attempt to fulfil my daily word count in writing.