‘Doctor, my eyes are leaking out of my face and my brain has swollen to eight times its usual size. What’s wrong with me?’
The doctor took off his glasses, sighing as he slipped them into his top coat pocket. “Mr Cooper,” he said, levelling me with a grave look. “I’m afraid to say, you’re hungover.”
The words clattered around me like corrugated iron falling over in a storm. Shit. How had it come to this? How had this happened to me? To me?
Was it the mile of pints I drank the night before? The vulcanised kebab meat and chips I had instead of an actual dinner? The four hours of fully-clothed sleep? It didn’t matter now. Nothing could have prevented this.
I felt the doctor’s hand on my shoulder. “Son,” he said. “There is a cure.”
He leaned under his desk, popped open a small fridge, and pulled out a bottle. He handed it to me. Ice cold; a bright orange elixir.
I read the label. “Irn-Bru?” I asked.
The doctor smiled. “Drink deeply, and in time, your ill ease will depart. Now, for the last time, stop coming to hospital for a hangover.”
