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!

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!

I usually embrace sporting opportunities, be it a game of netball, a run (or rather fast walk) around the park or some whacky new fitness class for a giggle. But there’s a time and a place for sport and I’m concerned that tomorrow morning won’t be it.

Tonight I’m hitting Brum for a girly night out with one of my bestest chums - having managed to shake off her new boyfriend. Three’s a crowd and all that plus I couldn’t find my gooseberry costume anywhere.

So, it’ll be just the two of us and if previous nights out are anything to go by, tonight could get messy. But my other friend is expecting me to sweat is out at a midday fitness class in Leicester tomorrow, followed by a session in the gym. And there’s nothing wrong with that, I’d usually lap it up. But with a hangover? With serious sleep deprivation? With severe dehydration? I sense I may be a tad grumpy come lunch time.

I imagine tomorrow morning going something like this:

• Wake up to sound of very loud noise and wonder where the hell I am and what that beeping noise is (alarm clock)
• Wipe the eye bogies from my face and peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth
• Try and sit up without feeling sick
• Trip over mate on way to the toilet and then just sit there for ages
• Head to the kitchen, stub my toe on an empty wine bottle and tread on discarded and dried up contact lens, which now resembles a shard of glass
• Search for liquid refreshment - no Lucozade, only pinot grigio, so plump for warm tap water instead
• Attempt to pull on my trackies and hoodie and look like an athlete, no time for shower
• Scrape hair off face and tie in an off-centre ponytail
• Recycle last night’s eye make-up and grab car keys
• Hit the motorway, feeling not all that in control of the car
• Pick up friend and get comments like “you look like shite”
• Make it to exercise class and crave Nurofen for thumping headache
• Fail to sweat because body is trying to hang on to every bead of moisture, as dehydration does its worst
• Snap at friend who’s super alert after staying in last night
• Drown myself in the swimming pool - anything to stop the pain
• Get rescued by fit lifeguard but lose my bikini bottoms in the process
• Die of embarrassment as fit lifeguard hands his phone number to my mate

Okay, so maybe I’m being a bit negative and over dramatic but I think a session in the gym tomorrow - no matter how much I want to do it at the moment - is a tad ambitious after a night on the tiles.

Hangovers are difficult to deal with at the best of times. But last week I experienced a few things which made mine a whole lot worse.

Wearing thermals, hobbling across snow in ski boots, boiling to death in a swinging gondola and swooshing down a mountain at high speed are all things to be avoided should you wake up feeling like death following one too many the night before.

My only advice, should you find yourself strapped to a pair of skis in the French Alps, is make your way to the nearest deckchair at one of the mountain bars and stay there. If you can muster the energy, feel free to order a coke (let it go flat before drinking) or try hair of the dog, and once you can keep solids down try tucking into some pomme frites.

This technique was tried on a couple of occasions during my trip to Alpe D’huez last week - a holiday full of laughter, skiing, drinking and more laughter. My two girly mates and I were first to arrive at our chalet and made our mark by supping our way through the cocktail list before the rest of the guests descended.

The rest of the guests? Well, 24 of them were from or had links to Southend, and they kindly adopted the three of us for most of the week. Now us volleyballers thought we could drink - Mandy proved this when she downed the best part of a carafe of red wine - but we had nowt on this bunch. As much as I hated the hangovers, the Essex Crew made our holiday and certainly the apres ski wouldn’t have been the same without them.

My dodgy ankle survived the ski holiday but my ribs are sore - not from ski injuries but from the sort of belly laughing that could burst blood vessells. I did lose my sense of humour on a few occasions though.

One was on the “scare chair”, a chair lift which I can’t even put into words without shaking so click here to experience it. And when you have a hangover it’s a whole lot worse. The second is when both my ski buddies appeared to lose their hearing and forced me to repeat everything I said at least twice. Not good when you’re tired and grumpy. And the third is when we arrived at the airport for the journey home. It’s not much bigger than a tin shack and was so rammed with passengers I wouldn’t have been suprised to see a one in-one out policy in operation on the door. Oh, and there was the occasion when I forget my gloves, trekked up three flights of stairs to retrieve them, only to get to the bottom and realise I’d forgotten my sunnies as well. Bugger.

It was a great holiday although I did return home craving fruit, veggies, a gallon of water and a proper night’s sleep. Now I’ve had all of those things and am feeling a tad healthier than I did a few days ago I can reflect on my ski jollies and the lessons we learned along the way. Tune in for part two of my ski adventures….

If I had cocktail sticks to hand I’d probably use them to prop my eyes open. Having the works Christmas do on a school night is a bad idea.

The combination of bowling (attempting to look fashionable in the shoes and keep nails intact) a curry, dancing and a lot of alocohol and laughter are the ingredients for a great night out - and it was. But now we’re at work and struggling to concentrate.

The headache can be sorted by popping a few pills and rehydrating with never ending cups of water and the stomach can be settled with a huge coffee and breakfast sarnie from the cafeteria. But the tiredness can only be cured by sleep. And it’s not professional to catch some zzzzs at work.

Today is the sort of day I wish I was curled up at home in front of the fire, and watching one of those Christmassy films on Channel 5 with a mug of hot choc. Bliss. Yes, I knwo I sound like a granny but it’s the hangover talking.

The champagne and nibbles being offered at work at lunchtime just don’t appeal, I’m seriously flagging, and I will be very grateful for my bed this evening - and the fact the Christmas break will begin at 3pm tomorrow.

So, some lessons have been learned. Firstly, that works festive bashes should take place on Friday or Saturday nights; secondly, that alcohol can be consumed in moderation and not like it’s going out of fashion; thirdly, that bowling shoes really are as bad as I thought they were; and fourthly, that my colleagues can bust some pretty cool grooves on the dancefloor.