This, readers, is the face of someone kept awake until 6am this morning.
The cause? A drunken tide of human flotsam, thoughtfully washed down my street by some festival or other. It was only as the sun rose that it finally receded, leaving but a knee-high heap of empty cans and bodily fluids in its wake.
I'm fully aware such naysayery outs me as the worst kind of boring middle-aged white person. That my plaintive whinging sounds like Sam Smith crossed with all four of my grandparents, in Surrey. Oh god. I'm a misjudged hip-hop obsession away from running for the leader of the Labour Party.
You think I want to be this way? You think I enjoy being so averse to the idea of youths having fun on a Sunday night??? Of course I don't. It's just an unfortunate side effect of having to listen to someone throw up outside your bedroom window for TWO SOLID HOURS.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take my fury out on the pot of blueberry jam I spotted in a cupboard earlier. YES I KNOW HOW THAT SOUNDS.