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I can't promise much for this post. Possibly, you might already have guessed that by the fact I can't even think of a relevant title for it.

I spent the last 24 hours catching up with a group of girls I used to go on hockey tour with, and am feeling more than a little shabby this morning.

We met up in a fantastic beach house in Wittering on the south coast of England after I had driven down through beautiful West Sussex. I'm a West Country girl personally, but West Sussex has to be one of the most visually pleasing places in the country with it's hills, valleys, picturesque villages and leafy woods. I swear, in the spring sunshine yesterday it so much resembled my mental picture of The Shire (for those Tolkien fans amongst you) that I kept looking for hobbits and doors in grassy banks.

Once I arrived, we spent yesterday chatting, gossiping, reminiscing, drinking, eating too much chocolate (one of them works for a well-known chocolate brand and seemed to have bought most of last week's production run with her for our delictation), walking along the beach, feeling the burn in our thigh muscles as we remembered how hard it can be to walk on shingle, and drinking (again) to recover from the exertion.

Throw in a meal out, more wine, silly games, more drinking on the beach, some embarrassingly bad campfire singing (without the campfire - even 3 sheets to the wind we weren't foolish enough to attempt that) and a restorative cup of tea at 1am and you have the recipe for a rather sore head this morning...

I should have known what to expect, of course. And I should have known that it would do me no good. It never did when we were on hockey tour 10 years ago or more, and now that I'm 40 + why would that lethal combination - vodka redbull - have a lesser effect?

The coup de grace was the fact that I needed to be back in London by 11am today so that Husband could fly off for another week of wooing Mother Russia.

Looking after the Boys, solo, with a hangover.

What was I thinking?