Uck. I feel physically grotty again today, in much the same way I complained about in this diary on Friday.

It's just occurred to me that both of the mornings in question came directly after I'd been drinking nice beer the previous night. I will be somewhat peeved if it turns out my body has spontaneously conceived an intolerance for alcohol. If it should turn out that some alcohol is fine but nice beer in particular is a problem, I think I might well find that more annoying despite it being less of a constraint on my behaviour.

This time last year, I would have been instantly willing to look on the bright side of enforced sobriety; since I wasn't within sensible walking distance of anyone I knew, it would have greatly simplified the dilemma of whether to walk or drive places. Now I am living at practically the centre of gravity of all the nice people's houses in Cambridge, and almost nobody I might want to go and drink with is more than fifteen minutes away on foot, and I will be really irritated if I'm prevented from doing so by my recalcitrant metabolism.

When balancing on a knife-edge, it is dangerous to fall off. But consider whether it is more dangerous to stay on, since then you risk being cut in half. Falling off at least keeps you in one piece.