He awoke where he'd collapsed seven hours earlier. He felt different now. A layer of grease seemed to cover his whole face, his hair was a filthy matted tangle like the hairs on dog legs after a paddle in a fetid stream.
Something halfway down the bed rasped and blew hot gases.
Welcome to a new Sunday morning.
Before he dare move he lifted his eyelids slowly and stared at the closed curtains. Would it be too light to open them, lest it burnt his retinas? The eyes shut tight. He lay still. Any sudden movement would result in nausea.
Trying to recount the last couple of hours of the evening before he fell into bed was difficult. Perhaps whisky was involved? It was easy to remember how the session had begun, heading towards the city centre. That couple of pints in the first pub, then on foot to other watering holes.
How did he get home? A taxi? "Where's my wallet?!" Oh, it's there on the bedside table.
He wishes he hadn't spoken out loud, his dry tongue stung as it peeled off the roof of his mouth. He thought he might just lay there a while. Perhaps another hour or two. Or four.
To be continued....For the remaining fifty two Sundays of 2012.