The Fox and firewater

I MADE A mistake last night, I had a glass of whisky.

Just the one - but my giddy aunt! What a head I've had today - it feels as if it's stuffed with cotton wool and hay, and just this side of being an ache. Somehow, too, my eyes feel watery and sore.

No more firewater for the Fox, then, not for a while anyway.

It's a pity, too, because I really enjoyed the drink - a 14 year old single malt that was a Christmas gift from a friend and which has been at the back of the liquor cupboard for nearly ten years; it was amazingly smooth and sweet with a lovely, peaty, smokey aftertaste.

Before I discovered the pleasures of the grape, the grain was often my little tipple treat.

These days I hardly ever touch spirits; even if I have a g-and-t, I often prefer my t without the g.

Anyhow, I have to drag myself around today, and I'm very pleased that it's My Good Lady who's doing the dinner this evening; I feel even more cack-handed than usual.

I even have to have an early night tonight, to sleep it off (although, as usual, I'm wide awake by the early hours).

If I'm still feeling gooey in the morning I might risk a "Prairie Oyster" or some other such revolting restorative.

And it was just the one - honestly!