And then, too soon, Monday, and five more days of doing what I was told until, at the end of each, it was time to go home to whatever tiny room I was renting and read myself to sleep. Pissing away an entire day simply coaxing your body back to pre-hangover health wasn’t, I soon learned, the wisest way to make use of one of the one and a half days a week when your hours were all your own; but wasting time is what a young man does best. Now that I didn’t attend church anymore, my Sundays needed filling up anyway. A whiskey hangover is best endured outdoors. Idling underneath a shady tree long enough that the afternoon sun periodically nudges you to move a few inches toward a more soothing shadow is a good way to re-acclimatize your debauched body to nature’s healing essentials of time and quiet and fresh air. My favourite mending spot was underneath an old elm tree in Tecumseh Park that overlooked the Thames River. Cool earth for my bottom, smooth bark for my back, I’d watch the river flow and the birds drift by and even the occasional fish poke its head above the water’s surface.
