Ways in which the first week of solid writing is like a hangover:

1. The journey from yay to ouch is far more rapid and unflattering than you expected. Being excited about an idea is so tantalising. Having to figure out how that idea works is a struggle akin to being vertical after a night of free vodka shots and eighties-dancing in an unknown bar with persons whose names escape you.

2. It feels all foggy and slow and headachey and you feel kind of stupid and clumsy and directionless and unmotivated and you resent yourself for allowing it to be like this. To fix this problem, you must eat unfeasible amounts of toast.

3. You cannot believe what a monumental dork you were last night, or, in the case of the writer, what a monumental dork you were when you thought this idea was remotely clever in the first place. Slices of your idiocy eclipse your brain, crippling all other neural pathways except for the neurone responsible for the consumption of toast. In this first week of writing, I rediscover problems. It isn't until week 2 that I can solve them.

4. Nobody else feels sorry for you. You knew this was coming. You brought it on yourself. If you didn't want to be here, you shouldn't have stood on a table at 4am shouting "dance-off!" while a sartorially splendid gentleman with a parasol over his elbow took down team names in a spirax notebook.

5. You will, I promise, wake from this. Refreshed, bright-eyed, keen and totally flummoxed as to what demon had possessed you. When that happens, please don't judge your former self. It isn't fair. I'm trying. Me, with my nutella toast and my earl grey, I'm trying here.