I got a free pass on Friday afternoon to go out for my work Christmas do. I tempted my dad over with freshly baked sausage rolls (he’s very cheap compared to nursery fees!) and off I went.
I knew I would have a drink or two. It’s my first in a while that I have been able to drink. But when I found myself downing my second shot (vanilla vodka and Cointreau – it was horrible), the little voice in my head sternly told me to stop, and I reached for the water. It’s a far cry from the year I puked into someone’s pint and staggered home. I’ve never liked to be a conventional boss!
The taxi journey home was weird.
To start with, it was very early. 6pm. I hopped into a car, and the guy straight away asked me how old I was. Peculiar. I asked why he needed to know and he said that the taxi office had radioed over and said I was underage. Seriously?! I spent the rest of the journey trying to convince the guy that I am, in fact, 29. “I’m a mother, don’t you know!” He didn’t believe me. I left the car shaking my head. First impressions are a funny thing.
And if the water hadn’t already started doing its job sobering me up, Ralphie chucking his dinner all over me certainly did the trick. He’s had a horrid cough and has been quite off his food. I’ve always been proud of his communications skills, but really? A simply head shake would have done the trick, matey.
Ryan thankfully stepped in to help with bathtime. A few direct splashes in the face later and my make up was pretty much off. And even though I had eaten a two course meal (I missed the starter) only hours earlier, it would have been rude not to have eaten the takeaway curry. It’s basically our Friday religion.
You know what, I didn’t even have a hangover in the morning. I feel almost human. Please remind me of this very wise approach to drinking the next time I am out.