I sat down at the table laden with multicoloured varieties of food that must have smelt great. Must have, I thought, as I gingerly blew my blotchy nose into a hankie and stuffed it back in my pocket.
I thanked my mum as ske passed me my plate. I looked at it to realise with both pleasure and regret that it was champaigne-poached salmon and potatoes in a delicious cream sauce. I love this dish. I lift my gaze up to see my Dad pouring me some bubbley into a tall flute. Even more champaigne! Now, under normal circumstances I wouldn't have said no to that, but its somewhat different now.

I've had a bad headache all day, but I'm against taking any kind of meds, so I normally just grit my teeth and bare it. Except that today was so stressful - the builders had just finished redecorating my kitchen, I've been labouriously moving furniture all day, my back is killing me, I was in a frantic rush to do some last minute present wrapping, and then had to get ready to go out to see a show at the Royal Albert Hall. Then run back, help make dinner, decorate the tree.... I should be happy. I had a great day.
Except I'm not. Happy. In fact, everything is just getting on my nerves, and I'm seening the bad side in people, instead of the good. I feel like Scrooge. Of all the days to feel like crap and not give a rat's backside about anything, it had to be on Christmas Eve, didn't it?

I got so pissed of earlier as I realised my exam deadline was looming dangerously close and I hadn't done a scrap of work for the past few days, I let my resolve down and gave in to what I'd kept myself away from the whole day. I nearly ran to my wardrobe, and flinging open the doors I rummaged under some clothes until my hand brushed against cold glass, and a smile formed on my lips. It was about 4 in the evening, but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do. Without any hesitation, I unscrewed the lid, threw my head back and took a huge swig out of the vodka bottle. And then another. I eyed the bottle wearily. Ah, what the hell, a bit more wont hurt, will it?

Now, sitting at the table, my head feeling like it's going to crack open from the pain, I regret what I did earlier. No, scracth that. I just regret getting a headache this morning, not that I could do anything about that.
'Mum, have you got some Ibuprofen, or something. I've just got a really bad headache.' I smile at her apologetically, as if I'm letting everyone down. And I feel like I am, what with my grey mood and everything.
My mum looks at me, and then shifts her eyes to the glass of champaigne next to my plate.
'Yeah, I've got some upstairs. But I don't think that champaigne is going to be a good idea, alcohol and drugs don't really mix well together.'
Argh. I swear silently. You can never win, can you?
'No, that's OK, thanks anyway', I say, as I take up the flute of champaigne.
My Dad goes through a small toast, to the family (some of them came from Paris to join us this year), the house, Christmas.
I'm half way through my dinner, glass nearly empty, when pain sears through my head, and I reach forward to cup my forehead in my hands.
'Are you OK?', my mum looks ate me slightly worried, 'You sure you don't want some Ibuprofen?'
She's nearly standing when I wave a hand dismissevly, telling her not to worry.
'I can't let the champaigne go to waste, can I?' I try to smile at her, but from my wincing I'm aware it probably more like a grimace.
'Even if it just makes the pain worse?'
'It's like a great pair of shoes, you just gotta put up with the pain, don't you?'



I know it's total rubbish, but there it is. A quick summary of today.... As if you'd want to know