Robyn’s Nest

I have managed to pretty much waste the whole day today - all because I had a wee bit too much to drink at a party last night. Champers followed by Southern Comfort and coke is not a good combination. Ugh.

I had the best of intentions today: while back in the shire (Shrop-shire, that is) I wanted to raid mum’s fridge before visiting my bezzie mate’s (BM) new flat and heading back to MK to crack on with my diploma assignment. What actually happened was this: woken by ringing phone (BM checking if she had time for a shower before my arrival), clamber out of bed, wipe dried dribble from my chin, throw clothes on and (stupidly) jump in the car for five minute drive to mate’s new flat. I arrived at said flat at 11.30am, didn’t leave until 5pm and even then I didn’t feel well enough for the two hour drive home.

BM had a hangover too so we gave each other sympathy, drank endless cups of tea and made each other laugh hysterically over the most childish of things. We have decided to rename going to the toilet for a number two “emptying yourself”.

During our witty and intellectual conversations BM and I pondered over the evil that is the hangover. Why do they hurt so much these days? I actually feel bruised all over (in part due to manic dancing in nightclub no doubt, worsened by lack of sleep), dizzy, sick, headache, and just holding a mug of tea to my mouth seemed to require 100 per cent concentration. Trips to the toilet to empty yourself double when you’ve got a hangover - the hangover poo me and BM call it - and you feel like your body is being controlled by someone else.

I still don’t feel normal and even three incredibly unhealthy meals hasn’t made me feel better - bacon and egg sarnie for breakfast, MacDonalds for lunch and Indian takeaway for tea. Not a very healthy day diet wise but Maccy Ds usually do the trick for a hangover. Not today.

If someone could invent a pill that would instantly disolve a hangover they would be a very rich person. I would certainly invest in them!

Ever feel like you’ve got so much going on inside your tiny little mind that it might just explode? Well, that’s the way I’m feeling at the moment.

I’m a creature of habit and survive by meeting deadlines, having regular slots for regular activities and writing numerous “to do” lists. But frantic fever has set in and there is so much to be done.

• Holiday. While this should be a time of relaxation I have to find time to pack, wax and fish out my passport before I jet off to sunnier climes on Tuesday morning. And will I be able to go a week without checking my email? Probably not.
• Moving house. I’ve spent the past week lugging boxes from one place to another (why didn’t I choose a ground floor flat?!) and that’s just the half of it. My current flat replicates a modern-day bomb site as I attempt to pack things into boxes, shift furniture etc. It also means I need to notify various organisations of my soon-to-be change of address and spend hours on hold to BT in an attempt to get my phone line connected. And then there’s the actual big move which happens the day after I get back off hols. Stressed and tired is a bad combination. There’s also new stuff to find out - what day is bin day, which one is my allocated parking space, can my neighbours hear my loud music, is my landlord a nice guy, how long will it be until I get make-up on the bright white carpet?
• Dreaded diploma. Two nasty assignments coming up, both of which will require time and brain power. And I’m distinctly lacking in both. And I’ve just agreed to a PR research project which will no doubt require more of my time. Doh! Am also way behind on my PR reading and reluctant to read Planning and Managing PR Campaigns while sunning myself in Spain. Would much prefer the latest Jonathan Kellerman thriller.
• Netball. Recently got back into it after a year off and loving it. However, I’ve sneakily been training with two teams and the time has come to choose the one I want to play for. Do I choose the team I initially agreed to play for? Their fees are cheaper, they’re a less serious team but they haven’t trained much so I’ve not bonded with them. Or do I choose the other team? Their fees are double but the players are more my age and I’ve bonded with them during summer training. Eek. Dilemma. Need to make a decision soon and feel guilty that I can’t say yes to both.
• Work. Got loads on at the mo and feel my two week holiday is slap bang in the middle of what will be a manic time. Bad timing! I have lots of reading I want to catch up on and just don’t get round to it. I also feel I’ve lost my sense of what’s happening in the news. My last job involved me sitting at my desk every morning with a cup of tea and a copy of the Daily Mail. I don’t like reading news online, it’s not the same as flicking through a tabloid, so the only proper news I get is provided by the Radio 1 bulletins to and from work. Not good. Must get back into newspaper habit as current affairs is a big part of my job and I need to know what’s going on in the world. And that doesn’t mean the latest Big Brother task!
• Money. An overlap in rent and investments in new things for my new flat means I’m going to be skint for a while. Add to that the fact I need money for my holiday next week and I’m quite generous with my spending, it’s going to be a struggle to cut back. Might have to hide my credit and debit cards.

So, with so much going on at the moment I have made some drastic decisions. Cut down on alcohol consumption (apart from holidays and events) and spend more time reading. Get up earlier and read the paper over breakfast instead of my usual shower, dress, dash out the door routine. Focus on work and CIPR assignments as failure will mean doing them again and avoid any kind of dating/interaction with attractive males as this only leads to disappointment and misery. Going out less will also save on money and I do not need to buy any new clothes, shoes or bags until the autumn. Partying less and playing netball more should keep my BMI on the right side of 24 and I’m considering cycling into work. Sounds pretty boring doesn’t it! We’ll see how long it lasts.

My pre-summer fitness campaign has taken a bit of a nosedive in recent weeks. Although I started with the best of intentions, I need to give myself a bit of a kick if I don’t want to look like a beached whale when I hit the Costa Del Sol next month.

Last week I failed to do any exercise what so ever - and I can’t even remember what my excuse is. And last night, although I planned to jump on the cross trainer as soon as I got home,  instead I curled up on the sofa and fell asleep in front of Hollyoaks.

The weekend’s antics were no advertisement for good health either. It was my mate’s hen weekend and although it involved a lot of walking across town, it also involved guzzling copious amounts of alcohol, several trips to Wetherspoons for burger and chips, dancing in killer heels (although this could count as exercise?), danish pastries for breakfast, not enough sleep and not enough water. It also involved pulling my hair in a ridiculously tight side ponytail and wearing so much glittery eyeshadow I struggled to blink.

So, I must get back on track. The hayfever/cold I seem to have developed isn’t helping - I feel a bit fuzzy and sound a lot like a man - but that’s no excuse if I want to beat the bulge. And, as I refuse to diet, exercise is the only way.

I don’t think tomorrow’s volleyball AGM counts as exercise either, although it may give my eyes a workout - trying to keep them open - and probably my mouth too - I usually have a lot to say!

Well, Bank Holidays are for drinking and, as a diagnosed binge drinker, I thought it rude not to indulge in an alcoholic beverage or two… or three.

Two nights out on the trot certainly took it’s toll on me and, needless to say, Sunday was less than productive. I didn’t actually get dressed until 4pm and that was only to scoff burger and chips and slump in front of the cinema screen (Forgetting Sarah Marshall is brilliant by the way; Russell Brand rocks!).

But my hangover was nowt compared to my mate’s. She stayed in on Friday but something odd happened on Saturday - namely her out of character intolerance to booze. We shared three bottles of wine and had a glass of champers each and that was it. But half way through the night the contents of her stomach decided to make an appearance on the nighclub floor. Time to take her home, me thinks.

I shuffle her into a taxi with the help of a fellow volleyballer - who is only 16! How can two 20-somethings be looked after by a teenager? Wrong! Anyway, my mate was house sitting for her boss last week and looking after her two doggies, so I stayed with her. I couldn’t remember where the house was and every time I asked drunken bud she just grinned at me like she had no idea who I was.

We found the house, I put drunken bud to bed, fixed her up with water and was about to turn the light out when the contents of her stomach decided to make a second appearance - all the way down the side of her boss’s bed and lovely cream sheets.

Now this bit is a tad gross, so if you’re sqeamish skip this paragraph. Drunken bud, still with inane grin on her face, simply brushed aside the vomit chunks which had fallen on her pillow and went back to sleep. I, meanwhile, set to task covering the offensive stomach contents (a Greek mezi topped up with vino) with kitchen roll before the two dogs rushed in for what they thought was an extra dinner. Yuk.

What a nightmare. Ironically, it was our end of season volleyball do and before the chucking incident our coaches had handed out some awards. In hindsight, I think there should have been one for biggest lightweight!

Tonight one of my friends and I are both going on dates, although not with the same guy and not at the same place. That would be awkward.

But we do share the same opinion on dating. It’s a bit of excitement combined with a lot of effort, and usually the result is disappointment. It’s not that we’re being overly negative here, just talking from past experience.

But I least I know Date Guy is tall enough for me. I text him to ask his height - the alcohol consumed on the night we met has clouded my memories somewhat - and told him I was trying to decide whether I should wear heels or not on date night. Yes, he probably thinks I’m odd now, but at least I know he’s not short. I couldn’t lower myself - literally - to date a guy shorter than my 5ft 9ins.

Anyway, Date Guy is a couple of years younger than me and someone I met on a night out before Christmas. We became Facebook friends, swapped mobile numbers, and have arranged to meet several times before now but something always got in the way.

So, tonight’s the night. And who knows, maybe if we like each other we’ll have a second date in September time?

PS The picture above depicts some dates (the fruit variety) - I was trying to be clever - but they could mistaken for pieces of poo. I felt an explainatory note was called for here.

A trip to the occupation health department at work today has informed me of the following - my blood sugar and cholesterol level are excellent, meaning I have a balanced diet and I’m not diabetic. All good.

However, apparently I am a binge drinker whose BMI is teetering on the edge of “overweight”.

They were offering these screenings at work and I thought I may as well go along. I had no idea about cholesterol etc and whether mine was good or bad so it was interesting to find out, even if it did mean stabbing my finger and seeing blood.

Now, I don’t smoke, never have, and I do up to four hours of exercise a week. Excellent, said the nurse. What about alcohol consumption? I explained that it’s quite difficult to work it out on a weekly basis. I can easily go a fortnight without touching a drop and then consume three bottles of wine or equivalent on a night out. Hmmm, she said.

“I know it’s not the healthiest way to drink,” I blurted out, but it was too late. The “bad for your liver” speech had started. I know that this way of drinking isn’t good and that a glass of wine a day would be better for me. But I don’t always fancy a drink, especially not on a school night, and when I do go out or have a special event to attend I like to make the most of it.

“I’m sure as you get older you’ll binge drink less,” the nurse said. “Yes” I replied, “Because my hangovers are getting worse.”

Right, onto my BMI which is 25 apparently. Anything above this and you’re classed as overweight. I’m teetering on the edge apparently although I’m not convinced the BMI is a good measure of a healthy weight.

I don’t confess to being a skinny minnie but I don’t think anyone would class me as overweight either. I play a lot of sport, am tall and a size 12. Pretty normal really. But what BMIs fail to take into account is muscle.

A lot of my friends are athletic folk and therefore carry a bit more muscle than the Average Joe. But, as muscle weighs more than fat, this tends to have a negative impact on their BMI. A few of my friends have been classed as obese - which is just plain libellous in my view.

The nurse also asked me about stress management. I didn’t tell her about the mass of ex boyfriends buried under the patio but explained that my sporting activities took care of all that. This has definitely been proved by the six-week break I had when I rolled my ankle. Stress build up and anger was present on a daily basis. Friends will confirm this. And I defo put weight on during this time, adding to my inflated BMI

So, am I a well person? Generally yes, but I need to change my drinking habits (unlikely) and lose a bit of weight (possible, since I am reclaiming my fitness level after the ankle injury and have embarked on my campaign to get a body fit for beach exposure come June).