Self-Mending Cups

The Wake-Up

The flashing light on my phone pulls me from sleep.

It is violent but necessary. The strong arm that dips into the sea and pulls a drowning body to the lifeboat. I'm wet – with sweat, not seawater – the lifeboat is my double bed. The other side is a rumpled set of sheets, intermingled with my partner's pyjamas. The phone still flashes but it has become secondary to the continuous drum beat it plays. I press the stop button. The relief is momentary, the dull warning of a hangover takes its place.

I don't know why I do this: set the alarm early for the morning after a planned drinking session. Not just any session either, the day after my birthday has never been a pretty sight. With each passing year, the night of celebration gets shorter, the hangover longer. I'm estimating within two hours the vow never to drink again will be made. And I'll mean it, the whole shebang is a waste.

Melissa insisted I go out after the disaster of the year before. I pointed out, it was that unfortunate birthday celebration that brought us together. I roll on my side to get a better view of the room. Her work shoes are gone. My stomach sloshes in a manner that tells me tea and toast are the only safe options for breakfast, unless I want to risk hugging the toilet later in the day.

My head is thirty seconds behind the alarm. It must have some kind of internal snooze button. Admittedly, a pretty short one. Four minutes is the optimum snooze. Any less and the initial intrusion is still too raw. Any more opens up the door to a full relapse. When this happens, it takes more than noise, flashing lights and strong arms to wake me.

It relies on pure chance.

It's as if my alarm sets a reminder to Libby she has to be noisy. While I'm still picturing a warm cup of tea – and water, I need about a gallon of water – she turns the kitchen radio to a volume akin to a late night disco. Which makes me notice my ears are ringing, kind of like they've been exposed to a late night disco. This is mortifying. It wasn't supposed to be that type of night. And it wasn't with those types of people.

Everyone has friends for different hobbies. Last night was more of a pub lunch crowd than Pacha partners. Which means it wouldn't even have been a good club. My stomach rolls again and I haven't even moved.

I cradle the phone in my hand, angling it so the screen rotation isn't activated even though I'm on a slant. This little screen is the first form of painkiller. Downstairs I will take some paracetamol, up here, the distraction from the iPhone eases growing aches.

Of all my daily tasks, the browse through the phone is the most automated. There's always a set order from emails to news to social media to sports to messages to weather. I don't know why I finish on weather. It's not like it has any great bearing on my day. Regardless of what it says, I leave the house in the clothes offer adequate warmth based on the temperature inside. This catches me out when Melissa has the interior baking at a constant 25ºC.

There's an email from my sister it reads:

Hey Charlie,

Hope you are okay.

I know today is a difficult one for you. Try not to beat yourself up.

Love you lots,

Kaye x x x

It makes no real sense. Kaye has always struggled with humour because she thinks she's hilarious. She's not. She's quirky, I'll give her that, but funny? – no. Deciphering her code, I'm guessing she's alluding to some sort of embarrassing behaviour last night. We have a rule: No Replays. We're not allowed to bring up drunken misdemeanours, what happened on a night out stays there. Over the years, it's suited me more than her but when Kaye goes full tilt, she needs the No Replays rules more than I do.

The news section is littered with stories about the Olympics. Makes sense, I guess. Britain has had a decent start. A headline says we've won gold in Skateboarding today. The first line has a terrible factual error, stating that the first day of August sees another gold for Great Britain in these understated Paris 2024 games. It's lazy. The sort of error that would have been unheard of ten years ago. Nowadays news is often a "reporter" trawling Twitter for what's trending. They were clearly going to reference the next games three years from now in the article and copy-and-pasted it in the wrong section. Of course, the Tokyo games have been understated, I'll give them that. But fair play, being delayed a year and the sort of economic implosion the world's just experienced, a downplayed Olympic Games isn't all bad.

In fact, I like it. The Games – at its base level – is about athletes competing, not commercialism. If there was one good thing to come out of the pandemic last year, it was a return to values. Okay, that actually lasted about a week after the final lockdown but with the Games, the spirit has been revived.

My Twitter feed is full of BBC Sport posts about the games. My fingers slide them into digital heaven before I read the headlines. I'm looking for pictures from last night. Someone always posts something funny. Something cringe. Something . . . anything. Nothing.

Weird.

It's the loophole in breaking the No Replays rule.

Maybe I'm in the best shape. Everyone must be suffering. This perks me up a little.

I skip the sport apps. I've had my fill of a misreported Olympics for now. Skateboarding. I mean, great. Whatever. But two weeks from now, no one in this country will care for skateboarding, gymnastics, swimming or even sprinting.

My messages are surprisingly empty. Not one notification. Also, there aren't any from yesterday. Melissa's name isn't the first on my list either. In fact, she isn't even on the list. This worries me. If I've deleted our chat, it means the drunken me said something so bad, it couldn't bear to face it in the morning.

I'm now in a slight panic. Okay, not panic, just uneasy. None of my regular contacts are in the message box. Did I offend them all?

If it wasn't for my sister's email, I'd question if this was my phone. The only messages present are from my network provider informing me my bill is available online, and one from Amazon with a pickup code. I remember ordering from Amazon as well as I recall culling my message inbox.

I swipe to the weather widget. 18ºC outside. I'll take that. Decent weather. I envisage a trek to the pub for hair of the dog. Even this thought doesn't clear the sense of anxiety that's washing over me.

The sweat on my body is the worst kind. That clammy type. I'm pretty sure if Melissa was here now, she'd claim I smelt of beer. She has a nose like a search and rescue dog. I think she can list the drinks I've had, down to the specific cocktail, based on giving me a whiff. I have a similar talent. I can detect how large the credit card bill will be, tallying up how many extra shoes will appear in her wardrobe, based on the friendly chirp of her voice.

Okay, it's a little different but it's relying on primary senses.

It makes sense about now to get out of bed. The longer you fester, the stronger the hangover takes hold. It's like a bedsore for the soul. An upshot of feeling rough is the early morning ritual can take a pause. No disruptive shower, aggressive shaving, picking out clean clothes. Nope. Just a quick brush of the teeth, comfy house clothes and maybe a splash of cold water to the eyes. The toilet break that's been needed since first getting between the sheets can finally be answered.