Having a hangover at work, we’ve all been there. In fact I’m currently here writing this blog in a last ditch attempt to make myself appear busy. That and sneaking away to the bathroom to quietly die for the longest amount of time acceptable. (Which by the way is only about 10 minutes before the office owls start getting sus). Judging by the phasing of people coming in and out every 10-15 minutes though, it looks like everyone else has the same idea.
You’re probably wondering why I’ve put myself in this situation. Well me too friends, me too. After a particularly horrific hangover incident during my college placement, I swore I would never do this to myself again. Nope I would never put myself through the emotional and physical turmoil of it ever again. Said incident occurred almost three years ago now. A younger (I can’t really say less sensible) me, promised herself she would be in bed asleep by at least 2am in order to be up and able to function to a sufficient level the next morning. Alas, at 5:30am 20 year old Jess was in an Eddie Rockets in Camden Street, stuffing herself with chicken tenders and oblivious to the fact that she had to leave for work in an hour and a half.
I remember setting off down Dublin’s grand canal on my way to work shortly after. Still drunk on the remnants of the previous nights vodka, and stupidly optimistic about the day ahead. I bounced in to work with a spring in my step (or drunken stagger depending on which way you look at it), I was fine I was so fine. I should have sensed what was coming by the sympathetic looks on my colleagues faces. Low and behold a mere hour later my limbs were dead and it was all I could do to keep from falling asleep at my desk. It was a bleak day. One never to be repeated.
Fast forward three years and I find myself in the middle of a bar in Shoreditch, screaming along to The Fields of Athenry with two of the Irish lads in work and a couple of cockneys (who amazingly knew all of the words). Probably wasn’t the best idea to belt out things like “SIN FEIN IRA!” smack bang in the middle of London surrounded by people you only know a mere two weeks, but hey, national pride and all that. As the night wore on I promised myself “I would leave after this glass of wine”, but of course this glass turned into the next, and the next, aaand the next. Before I could catch my breath after screeching low lie the fields, I was running for the last tube home. To be fair it was the office summer party so I was obliged to be social…
Anyway so my plans to take it easy and only have a couple of glasses in an attempt to avoid the inevitable work hangover failed miserably. You haven’t really been hungover until you’ve been hungover during the rush hour commute in central London. Gone are the days of skipping a lecture to comfortably die alongside your bottle of Lucozade and box of wedges. Imagine, your stomach is doing somersaults, you’re having palpitations, sweating slightly, fearing the onset of the shakes and then you’re hoarded onto a tube and wedged up against 100 other people. There’s no room to move and you’re suffering the sudden horror of not knowing whether that’s your own perspiration running down your neck, or someone else’s. (I know, so gross but that’s the reality). Now that is the true definition of the struggle is real.
So it’s now 10:54 and I’ve just about managed the first two hours in the office. No vom and dash trips yet. All the goss from last night has started doing the rounds. Feeling silently reassured in the fact that I wasn’t the poor guy who vomited in one of the senior managers handbags, or the girl who shifted the “awkward” lad from the Data team. Just the new Irish girl screaming rebel songs and knocking back the free wine like there was no tomorrow. Slightly more acceptable surely?
11:05 and someone has decided that now, the morning after the office summer party, would be a good time to blare 80’s music throughout the office to “boost morale”. On that note I shall sign off with a couple of snaps and my last remaining dignity.
Happy hangovering to me.