Pain killer!
Another heart-attack story in the press, this time about pain killers. This cased great dismay as I had just sent in two para to try and sort out the oom-pah band that had set up residency in my head, the result of revels last night.
Heart attack stories seem to be flavour of the month in the press and it would appear that if you have a dull job and a hangover, you're screwed. This is a pity because, like many people with dull jobs, I really like to drink, it's one of the ways to make the afternoons more interesting, and shorter.
Thinking back, I'm trying to recall the last time I took a pain-killers for anything other than a hangover. Thankfully, I can't recall. I suppose the reason is that if you, for instance, stub your toe, it's much more effective therapy leaping round the room like a whirling dervish, holding your foot and cursing all furniture in general and the article you've stubbed against in particular, than it is to limp to the medicine cabinet and pop a couple of aspirin.
What we're short of by way of balance if one of those stories about how something that is considered bad for you in excess (drink, salt, altitude) is actually quite good for you in moderation. For instance, one glass of wine is supposed to be good for the heart, while many, we now know, is bad because you end up necking half a bottle of Demerol the next day.
The ugly truth about pain killers comes only a few weeks after the revelation that ibuprofen causes stomach problems. Certainly when I used to wake with a force 7 hangover (gusting to force 10) and popped a nurofen or two, I often suffered from a queasy stomach. This though, could be down to the seven pints of foulbreath's old particular imbibed the night before, or the swaying of the carriage, of the realisation that you've left home not wearing socks.
The trick, of course, is to avoid sobering up at all!
Heart attack stories seem to be flavour of the month in the press and it would appear that if you have a dull job and a hangover, you're screwed. This is a pity because, like many people with dull jobs, I really like to drink, it's one of the ways to make the afternoons more interesting, and shorter.
Thinking back, I'm trying to recall the last time I took a pain-killers for anything other than a hangover. Thankfully, I can't recall. I suppose the reason is that if you, for instance, stub your toe, it's much more effective therapy leaping round the room like a whirling dervish, holding your foot and cursing all furniture in general and the article you've stubbed against in particular, than it is to limp to the medicine cabinet and pop a couple of aspirin.
What we're short of by way of balance if one of those stories about how something that is considered bad for you in excess (drink, salt, altitude) is actually quite good for you in moderation. For instance, one glass of wine is supposed to be good for the heart, while many, we now know, is bad because you end up necking half a bottle of Demerol the next day.
The ugly truth about pain killers comes only a few weeks after the revelation that ibuprofen causes stomach problems. Certainly when I used to wake with a force 7 hangover (gusting to force 10) and popped a nurofen or two, I often suffered from a queasy stomach. This though, could be down to the seven pints of foulbreath's old particular imbibed the night before, or the swaying of the carriage, of the realisation that you've left home not wearing socks.
The trick, of course, is to avoid sobering up at all!
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