Let me be your drunken chicken

You lose the battle when you admit you have a hangover.

I have a hangover. It is a type 'A' hangover which gives me a gentle throbbing in the back of my head and the small of my neck as well as a gargantuan appetite. In the course of the last 4 hours I have had: two large orange juices, one carton of yoghurt (yes, that yoghurt I spilled over my suit last week), one chestnut and walnut bun, one tomato and cheese omelette, fried potatos (came with omelette, honest), one serving of minestrone soup, two slices of toast (with butter) and two poached salmon and egg mayo sandwiches. I splashed the soup over my nice pink shirt. Darn. If it isn't yoghurt, it's soup...

I thought I was witnessing the paranormal because when I stepped into the office pantry the kettle started boiling. That made me jump.
"Nope, it's just that the kettle is really slow. It takes ages for it to start boiling," my colleague D. said when I shakily recounted what had happened. Apparently you can press the button for it to boil, walk up to the far end of the corridor to chat with someone, walk back and it will still not have started boiling.
"That's what happens when you try to boil a litre at a time, anyway," D. said. I didn't want to go back to check whether it was actually one litre of water or not.

I think I need to lie down.