I thought it was a hangover - which, technically, it was - but it was also so much more than that.
It says something, though, about my alcohol consumption on the average Friday night that when I'm praying to the porcelain-altar at 4pm the next day I don't really think there's any cause for concern. Anyway, whatever it was, it blew.
So the boyfriend and I have spent a pleasant Easter curled up in bed watching golf (him) and surfing the blogs of former America's Next Top Model contestants (me), drinking Lucozade (both of us) and occasionally dashing to the bathroom to make deals with God (thankfully, just me).
Good grief! I have one week left of my impossibly, beautifully long Easter break and then it's back to Brighton, early mornings, Metro, Nero espresso at Gatwick, the shit-stained smell of trains and endless reading and dissertation doing.
Now? I'm happy with an evening of South Park, rice cakes and the contemplating the inner complexities of the toilet bowl because - believe me, the way I feel is no laughing matter but still - I'm really enjoying hanging out just the two of us. If roles were reversed, I'd feed you Rennies and stroke your hair too.
In other news, my parents, brother and half of the Scottish extended family are currently out for dinner in Aberdeen and I am jealous. Oh, for a plate of stovies. And the ability to digest food.