On Friday afternoon at 1.20pm I turned the ripe old age of 25. I can no longer class myself as ‘in my early twenties’, and if I was to enter X Factor this year, I would be in the overs’ category. Sad times.
Fortunately, I share my pain with one of best friends who celebrates her birthday just 3 days before mine. And yes…that does make her older, which I am very happy about.
To celebrate the fact that we were now ticking the next box along on application forms, we decided to head out on Friday night for a few drinks with friends. A few friends turned into 30 odd people over taking the garden in our local. A few drinks turned into jaeger bombs by the dozen and dancing around like we were being stung by cattle props until the wee small hours.
At 5am, I walked home to bird song and relished in the fact that it was probably the best birthday we’d had yet. I was giddy, excitable and convinced that I was actually quite sober.
Then Saturday morning arrived and my dear god. I felt every single one of my 25 years and struggled to keep my eyes open. It was then that I knew I couldn’t blame this on tiredness, over exertion or a dodgy burger.
You always know that it’s a hangover when;
– You wake to discover you’ve been mugged. Except, strangely said criminals didn’t take your phone, house keys, purse or £100 handbag. Just your cash. And all of it at that.
– You find cash point receipts from 4am. A good six miles away from where your night started and a good ten miles away from where you live.
– You find it acceptable to drink Diet Coke. From the can. Whilst still in bed. You even try to drink it whilst laying down.
– You begin having really negative thoughts about the friends you have known and loved for years. They are almost certainly responsible for this fall out and definitely pinned you down and poured the gin down your neck against your will.
– You finally get out of bed to discover that your legs have been replaced by cotton wool.
– It takes twelve text messages, three Google searches and the hiring of an MI5 agent to determine how you got home. And even when you’ve been rest assured that you got a cab, you still don’t remember it.
– Your day is made up of the following, repeated sequence.
Lay – Flashback – Cringe – Weep .
– The only things you can manage to eat are beige. And are carb heavy. Basically all you can muster is toast. Dry toast.
– Your thighs ache like there’s no tomorrow. It takes until 4pm for you to realise the cause of said injury was you showing off how many lunges you can do whilst at the bar. To the guy you’d only just been introduced to.
– You go to the mirror and look at your reflection with genuine shock that your head isn’t actually in a wheel clamp.
– You search around your room too determine what item of clothing had vodka spilt all over it so you can dispose of it immediately as the smell is making you gag. You soon come to realise that the smell is, in fact, you.
– You wake to find a Hansel and Gretel style trail of your clothes from the bathroom to your room. You remember thinking you were being very time effective by doing the ‘undress walk’ down the corridor the night before.
– You drink water like you’ve never seen it before. You begin contemplating running away for a hot affair with the tap because it’s the only thing in the whole house that’s making you feel better at this point.
– You try and call your best mate for a debrief of the night before. You realise that you can’t speak in full sentences.
– You have a rounded understanding that the only thing that will make you feel better and back on form is another drink. You think about it. Sometimes you do it. Sometimes you go hell for leather and go out again. And on Sunday morning, this sorry bloody list begins again.