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The trip back to Wullington was uneventful, although some unsuspecting Kiwi suit emerged from the toilet cubicle at the Shell garage to find me puking my ring into the basin – the expected hangover having by now kicked in. I would obviously rather have vomited in the toilet, but as he was in there, what option did I have? He didn’t seem to see it that way and got rather arsey about having to wash his hands where I had just vomited, despite my pointing out that I’d done my best to wash the worst of it away.

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