Number of boyfriends who came home from Jo'burg for the weekend: 1
Number of tickets to the Good Food and Wine Show won: 2 - and ps: wasn't I more excited than Janice Dickinson in a collagen factory? I never win anything.
Number of wine tastings - you know, those itty bitty sips they give you so you can swill the glass all knowledgeable-like under your nose, dribble some liquid into your mouth and then stare off into the middle-distance, pretending to distinguish certain bouquets or noses or topnotes (maybe that's perfume) or whatever when what you really want to do is whack the glass back onto the counter and say, 'Another one Barkeep, and make it a double this time' ... well, number of those it takes to get me on the express road to Smashedville: about six, apparently. Maybe five. What is happening to me? Perhaps indulging in some more of the Good Food and less of the Good Wine would have been an idea.
Number of spontaneous visits to Tiger Tiger: 1 (please don't tell anyone)
Number of vodka limes at said Tiger: enough not to remember how many. And then a couple more. Just kidding (no I'm not).
Number of cheesy 80s rock songs danced to on side of dance floor, attempting to drag Boyfriend onto floor with me: too many. Thank God he managed to resist.
Number of head-throbbing, seriously-contemplating-suicide, please-god-let-it-end hangovers at work the next morning: 1. But you could divide it into four, and they would kill a small horse each. Of course, it only kicked in at around ten, before which time hindsight reveals me to have still been drunk.
Number of rugby matches watched on Saturday afternoon after recovering: 1. Incidentally, my very first. Have managed to live in SA for twenty-two years without being forced to watch one. But figured I owed lovely, forgiving, saintly boyfriend this much.
Number of resolutions to really start taking it easy from now on with the drinking: 1, and full intentions to stick to it this time.
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