Being breathalysed in your own home
Today, when driving home from Manchester at about 10 o clock or so, my driving was not particularly sharp. I had just eaten a massive Indian meal at a nice-looking (but not nearly as nice-tasting) indian restaurant, and my stomach was holding its own private little revolution. It felt as if the stomach acids tried to chew their way through my spleen and onto the car upholstery, to be honest, and I wasn’t having any of it.
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