This morning, I woke up in a strange bed in Archway.

It wasn't meant to happen. But the problem with living in the London suburbs is that the last tube to my neck of the woods leaves at about 11:50pm. That means leaving the Spitalfields bar you're in at presicely the same time your 6th glass of wine gets consumed and the words "WOO! Where we going next?" start doing the rounds.

I get all complicit after a few glasses of wine. The words "it's ok! Stay at mine!" override the fact that I'll be sleeping with my contact lenses in, having a battery-less phone the next day and coming to work unbrushed, unwashed and unsober in yesterday's clothes the next morning.

It also means my alcohol consumption automatically triples, because another three hours are added on to the night. And I'm not half as responsible about downing three glasses of water and a Berocca before passing out as I would be at home. As I slipped into a spare bed at god knows what time, shouting "yeaaaaah no probleemmooo" in response to my host's instructions on how to lock his house, where to leave the keys and directions to the tube station, I suddenly remembered that without a phone battery, there is no early morning alarm.

Luckily my mental clock prodded me wide awake at 7ish, as it always bloody does after a night on the lash, and I miraculously found the tube station (well, found a bus to the station with a mental shouty woman on it who kept kicking the doors, but that's Archway for ya folks) and got to work early, with an hour to spare until my hangover kicked in.

Which it did. With a vengeance. In the middle of a meeting. At which point I grabbed my (dead) phone, looked all panic-striken at the (blank) screen, declared "Excuse me, I have to take this" and darted out of the office, before sprinting to the nearest toilet for a tactical chunder.

Sometimes, needs must.

All this serves to remind me that

1) I can't party like I used to
2) But given the means (or a mates house), I'll have a go

and thirdly, that my now confirmed move out of Suburbia and into the hallowed grounds of Zone One - Central London, will probably be the best, most convinient hangover cure I ever make. It's happening on the 7th January.

In short, I'm moving out. And I can't bloody wait.