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!

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.

When I woke up this morning I refused to believe it was 7am and therefore time to get out of bed. Surely I’d only been asleep for a few minutes! And it was still dark outside so it had to be night time? Didn’t it?

Nope, another seven and a bit hours had flown by and it was time to drag myself out of bed and start another day. And it made me wonder if there would ever be a day - just one - when I’ll be able to spring out of bed and not feel tired.

I would so love to be a morning person. To spring out of bed at 6am and go for a jog around the block. To do all my boring household chores so I could enjoy more ‘me time’ after work. To sit and watch the news over breakfast, rather than pouring a bowl of cornflakes down my throat while attempting to dry my hair, pull my socks on and clean my teeth. To have time to actually check whether I’d turned the hair straighteners off, rather than worrying about it all day. One day I will burn the house down, all in the name of straightened locks, I just know it.

But it’s just not me, this getting up at a reasonable hour lark. I can set my alarm for 6am but it just means I will spend an hour snoozing. I leave exactly enough time to shower, get dressed, put make-up on (this is ESSENTIAL - can’t leave the house without in on, it’s not fair to other people)  and wolf down brekkie (although this is occasionally sacrificed for an extra 10 minutes in bed on those even more tired than usual days) and then drive to work.

So anything which doesn’t fit into that routine - replying to a text message, putting a load of washing on, having to fill up with diesel on the way to work or nip to the cashpoint - will make me late. And I really hate being late so it’s a good job I can move quick!

I would be much less stressed if I just got up 15 minutes earlier but I just can’t bring myself to do it. I feel tired and surely the cure for tiredness is more sleep?

Saying that, I could go to bed at 9am and still feel knackered the next morning. Perhaps I’m destined to have big bags under my eyes. Better go now, am feeling a bit tired. Too tired to type in fact. Snore.