The Consolation of Sunday Night Hangovers

The evening of any kind of hangover is strange. The traumas of the day have passed, the nausea, the tiredness, the sometime-melancholy, and is replaced by an odd almost consolatory feel. The day may have been endured rather than enjoyed (generically that is, my day was pleasant if lazy) but come nightfall. you find yourself wrapped in a strangely comforting aura. Maybe it's due to the fact that once nightfall hits, any hopes for getting anything out of the day are gone. You give up and in that submission comes the narcotic-like high of DVDs, bad but cosy Sunday night television (a documentary on Les Dawson), cups of tea and food (potatoes cooking in the oven as I write). At the end of all this (and I have about four hours before bed) are the joys of sleep.
Of course, the snake in this particular paradise looks like an alarm clock set for too early in the morning. Groggily turning it off in shocked disbelief; another weekend done with? Ah well, you think, as you reluctantly pull on clothes, have breakfast, take a shower, at least there's next weekend. I'll get out on that country walk then...