Kishore Singh: The new year of the Dog

If there's one thing many people I know carried over from 2013 to 2014, it was a hangover. It's what happens when you accept a drink on Christmas Eve, and before you can say "Cheers" it's the new year, and you don't know how you got there but for someone's advice to begin the day with something called Hair of the Dog. Which, for those not in the know, is an alcoholic drink you have in the morning because your head is pounding and you woke up hugging the tiles in the bathroom. Opinions about the Dog differ. Some prefer it straight (neat whisky), others want it fancy (champagne with breakfast), some like it heavy (a Bloody Mary is recommended), others add a dash of cognac to their coffee - which, together, are guaranteed to cause further dehydration. There's some who suggest beer is better, though I suspect that's only a starter to doing shots before a boozy lunch.

Everyone I know has their own remedy. An uncle likes to line his stomach with a greasy meal before going out on a binge, which is every other night. Various cousins swear by a bowl of yoghurt - the bacteria must love the yeast. Some insist on a banana, though suggestions on the right timing differ: a nephew says after is better than before. An aunt who likes her drink has similar issues with those who advocate toast either before or after, and has resolved it by carrying bagels in her pocket which she proceeds to have in between instead. Those who advocate the use of analgesics argue about what is best, a couple of aspirins before hitting the bar, before retiring to bed, or immediately on waking up. Alka Seltzer groupies usually settle for the morning after.

Those who recommend liquid diets aren't way off the mark - lots of water (understandable), juice (there's merit in imbibing Vitamin C, according to the medical fraternity), but milk? And while drinking H2O might make sense, how exactly does a shower help? Some have their quirks and promote fad diets such as sliced cucumbers (don't ask), lettuce (apparently it soaks up the Jagerbombs), even noodles (I guess they're plain hungry). Expat friends endorse pickles when what they mean is relish - and mint chutney must be a miracle cure the way I've seen some spoon it up. But when somebody suggests exercise as therapy, you know you're being had - if you're good enough to go running, or do weights, you're fine enough to send those emails you'd been putting off since Boxing Day.

Hangovers may or might not be curable, but to my mind there's nothing yet to tell you what you got up to when you were under the influence. Ticked Sarla off? Threw up on the boss? Danced on the dining table? Pitched a can of steaming garbage over into the neighbour's - this last being unfortunate because they have CCTVs that could result in a headache worse than a hangover? What did you say on your host's behalf when the cops raided the party? And did the assistant bartender you'd hired for the evening actually record the maudlin strip dance a friend's wife did and is now inconsolable about propriety and privacy?

Which might suggest that the best way to have stayed out of trouble would have been to snuggle into a quilt some time in the last week of 2013 and wake, like Rip Van Winkle, in 2014. Happily, though heavy-headedly, that wasn't an option among Delhi's partying crew - yet.