Drinking eight pints of Guinness.

Drinking an unknown quantity of gin and tonic. Well, I say unknown, but what I do know is that it was enough to ensure that Sunday morning's vomit looked, felt and tasted like a treble measure.

Eating a few potato wedges. And nothing else.

Taking a rather important financial letter out with me on an all-day-drinking session in the (vain) hope that I would remember to post it at some point. Also, not to lose it. Please, if you find it, stick it in the post for me.

Sending any texts after 10pm. Because I remember none of them.

Making two phone calls after midnight. Because I remember neither of them.

Ordering a curry. Because I don't remember doing it. And I obviously forgot that I did it almost immediately, as I found it the next afternoon morning, untouched, on the kitchen table.

Opening my eyes the next morning.

Driving on an emotional whim and wild goose chase 30 miles down the motorway with a raging demolition team having a hammer-wielding competition behind my eyes and pins and needles racing down both of my arms and all across my face.

Drinking red wine last night.

All of the above are, I'm thinking, not particularly representative of the best decisions I've ever made in life...