I was as naked as the day I was born.
Beckoned by the bright, golden light of a clear Somerset morning, I reluctantly removed my unshaven, unsteady body, from the unbearably hot bed.
One half had not been slept in, whilst my side was strewn with cast-off, crumpled and creased bedsheets.
If my wife had seen the state that the bed and I were in, I had no doubt she would hit the roof. We were both a complete mess.
Next, I made my way barefoot across the carpet and stubbed my toe on a bedroom chair, cursed loudly, and then walked past the full-length mirror on the landing.
I stopped for a moment to regroup and could not help noticing that my birthday suit needed ironing, but it was a tiny distraction from my mother, father, and son of a hangover.
“I’m getting too old for this!”
I descended the stairs to the kitchen and salvation.
“Never again will I drink with the pub landlord, and I mean it this time; me and The Three Ferrets are finished!”
My head was pounding, beating brutally, like an oversized hammer on the side of an industrial waste bin, echoing with every accelerated heartbeat.
I was hot, sweaty, thirsty, and focused on just two things, water, and headache tablets.
As I hit the bottom stair of my new home, the telephone rang.
I unsteadily picked up the receiver, holding the bannister rail for balance.
After a short delay came a curt, unfriendly voice, that I did not recognise.
“I’m watching you!”
