Sometimes blood just aint enough

My liver is aching. It’s pathetic. If you wake up with sudden visions of the night before: tequila slammers, more tequila slammers, noodles from that delicious Vietnamese dinner hanging from your throat like Alien tendrils as you clutch the toilet bowl, then you expect a hang-over. More so, you deserve a hangover, you take it like a nail through the hand for your evening of sins. But, when all you’ve had is a few quiet and awfully civilised glasses of red wine, then you feel like you’ve been taken for a ride with no bicycle seat. I should not have to bear this cross!

My family would be so ashamed. I come from a heritage of drinkers. Alcohol tolerance is in my blood. I have an uncle who drove through flood waters to a local brewery because his keg was running low; a grandfather who enquired at a very posh Western Australian winery if the Cabernet Sauvignon came by the flagon; and a great Aunty who drank so much gin that everyone was advised to ‘stand-back’ at her cremation. So what happened to me?