knock me over with a feather

oh my god! i was so drunk last night.
and do you know how i know? not because i've got a hideous hangover – space hopper in stomach, drill in brain and fire in eyes – and not because of that vague sense of shame that often follows a heavy night (or in my case afternoon and evening, which featured a bottle of gin, a bottle of rose and a bottle of fizz between 2).
no, i know i was 'so drunk' last night because each of the three people who I share the house with (yes, i know it should be with whom i share the house, get over yourself) greeted me with the same words: oh my god! you were so drunk last night.
why do people feel the need to tell you what you already know?
it's like telling someone who leaves the house dressed as a clown 'oh my god! you went to a fancy dress party last night!', or if they really are a clown 'oh my god! you went to work in costume!'
i wasn't unfortunately, drunk enough to forget that oh my god! i ate a big mac to try and soak up the alcohol and because i had the foodie equivalent of beer goggles on. and for that i truly am ashamed.
i'm going to go for a hair of the dog lunch now and a walk on the heath.
i wonder if, when i get back, i will be greated with the earth-shaking revelation that 'oh my god! you've been out!'