How to put a dampener on a lovely summer evening

Picture the scene.

You're up on the roof terrace of a pub in Kings Cross with some friends, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine and demolishing fruit-stuffed glasses of Pimms as the day slips seamlessly into balmy night.

After an hour or so, you glance down at the bench next to you. Then you look at the floor. You glance nervously to the opposite seats (maybe you put it over there?) and for reasons unknown, start patting your pockets-  as if you normally pop your handbag in your jeans for safe keeping.

"What are you looking for?" says a friend, having seen your eyes step up their frantic search behind you and on adjoining tables.

"Oh, just my handbag..." you reply, all casual, like.

Others join in the search. 

"It's definitely not here."

"No" you sigh, acknowledging what you knew when you first looked down. "It's gone."

That's annoying, you think, the Pimms and Prosecco softening the blow slightly as you borrow a phone and start cancelling things. Someone alerts the bar staff, another friend tops up your glass and two others go and rifle through the bins outside, returning with three other stolen credit cards in their hands; none of them yours.

Someone tops up your glass.

You mentally list everything that was in the bag: your everyday survival kit.

Wallet (no cash these days, thankfully), debit cards, drivers licence, National Insurance card. Boots, Tesco, Necter, spare SIM card. Diary, phone, Oyster card. Bus pass. Bits and bobs you keep close. Moleskine diary, your plans for the next few months, the ideas written in the back. Your shit HTC phone that you actively urged people to steal regularly, but feel a bit lost without now that it's gone.

On your way back from checking the toilets, the calm feeling is shattered by the realisation that you've also lost the key card for your block. The keys to your flat. Was your address written anywhere?

Your glass is filled again.

The bank arrange for emergency cash, you get a taxi home. Your housemate lets you in.

The list of things you've lost continues to rack up the next morning as you start your day. Earphones. Mac cover-up. Dior lipstick.

Throughout it all, you're calmer than expected. A friend sums it up nicely with a cautious question.

"Urm, was it...it wasn't....it wasn't...The Bag, was it?"

"No, no. Thank God."

"Phew."

"I know." you sigh, hangover creeping in as you write down all the things you have to do before you can get to work. "Every cloud."

Good decisions made on bad hangovers

It was 11am last Saturday morning when myself and the Future Housemate viewed our fourth flat of the morning.

Whether it was our hangovers, the time of day, or both - the previous three places we'd seen were almost instantly discounted on the grounds of smell alone.

While the communal corridors and private spaces of the first two flats contained a pungent whiff of this morning's bacon and last night's dinner, the third hit us with a thick wall of cigarette smoke; a suffocating smell that permeated every inch of space and followed us out the door within minutes.

The fourth, we liked.

It was modern. It had good transport links nearby. It was over budget, but we wanted it anyway. I put down a deposit there and then.

With the first of my housing problems taken care of, there remained one more thing to sort out: myself.

When you're unhappy with a situation, you always have two options: you can either stay unhappy and complain to anyone who'll listen, or you can do something about it. Realising that I was fast falling into the former category, I chose to take action.

Firstly, I called up my friends and got drunk.

Then, the next morning, with another hangover dictating my actions, I started packing up my things at the old house, despite having another two weeks remaining on the rent. By the afternoon, the contents of my bedroom - the only space in the shared house that felt mine, really - were packed into plastic bags, boxes and rucksacks and ready to go home.

By the evening, I was sitting on a sofa in a warm, clean house with a large, grateful dog on my lap, in the company of my new 60 year old house mates - my parents.

And after a week of getting in from work to find dinner on the table, there remains only one problem left to face: the challenge of moving back out and cooking for myself again in six week's time.

Pro tips for starting a new job

If there was a guide on how to prepare for your first day at a new job, there would probably be one point written in all caps, surrounded by an array of asterisks, an abominable amount of exclamation marks; maybe bold, underlined and put in red for good measure. It would say this:

******DO NOT GET DRUNK THE NIGHT BEFORE!!!!!!!!!!!******

But alas it happened, as these things tend to, entirely by accident.

One minute myself, PIB and new friend Brummie Girl were taking a leisurely stroll up Portobello Road after a Monday afternoon dim-sum binge. The next we were in a pub several glasses of wine down, huddled around my HT-Shit phone trying to work out how to delete my Facebook status, which I'd just updated with PIB's ex boyfriend's name. That's what happens when you're trying to delete someone when you've had a few: you mistake the "share" button for "search" on Facebook mobile, and helpfully, there's no option to remove.

Following an inadvisable finale which began "Oh dear, quite drunk now. Better make the last one a G&T", I went home, rectified the Facebook Status Boo-Boo (yes, he had noticed), went to bed, and the next day woke up feeling like my uncle's vegetarian girlfriend probably did one Christmas, when she realised my Grandma had wrapped her Linda McCartney sausages in bacon: a little bit sick.

Helping matters along immensely was the Northern Line, which didn't get the message that I'd pressed snooze five times and really needed a Charing Cross branch train - like now, right now - and put on three Morden via Bank's in a row instead. That sentence will make absolutely no sense to anyone who doesn't use the tube - but while you're here - can I borrow a tenner? My monthly travel card appears to have done its annual January magic trick of increasing by an extra £6, so I'm saving for a team of huskies instead. 

Anyway, aware that I was arriving five minutes late for my first day at a company which has around 24,985 fewer employees than my last one, ergo-these-things-might-be-noticed-a-tad-more, it was beyond me why I then answered my new bosses "How are you?" with "Struggling a bit this morning, if I'm honest".

In hindsight (or straight away after he'd raised his eyebrows in surprise) I realised that "Wonderful, fresh as a daisy, thank you" might have been more appropriate.

The day progressed with no further misdemeanours, except the bit where I didn't ask where the kitchen was and kept wandering purposefully into, and then out of, adjacent offices without luck in a frantic search for water.

But apart from the delays, hangovers on a school night, honest replies and partial dehydration, I've made it to day two and the new job is good. Nay, probably the best one yet. Relief all round.

And anyway, as all pro-tips in this field suggest: you must start as you mean to go on.

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.

Revenge is a dish best served by text message

On Saturday night, while propping up The Winchester's bar with the Boy and his two friends, news reached me that my good friend the PiB had been mugged while on holiday in Ibiza. Aside from a few grazes and a gammy ankle, the result of attempting to chase said Bastard Mugger through 'wasteland in the dark' as she put it, she was unharmed, upset and devoid of a handbag, phone and wallet. Predictably, the police couldn't care less. But I care. And I care even more when it's 2:30am and I'm in a bar contemplating shots with salt and lemon.

Retribution in mind, I picked up my CleverPhone.

"You fuckers" I tapped, thinking of no better form of address, "You fuckers who stole my mates phone can..."

I paused. Can what. Caaaan...make calls? Text your mates for free? Rot in hell? No, too cliche. They probably won't speak English anyway, so let's keep it simple using language the whole world can enjoy.

"You fuckers who stole my mates phone are the lowest form of scum on earth, I hope you die"

No, no. Too much. Let's not get into wishing death upon the little low life rascals. Ten minutes have passed, and I'm still poised over my phone trying, through the tequila fog, to engage the witty insult-making part of my brain. I try so very hard. My brows are furrowed in thought. Drunken outrage at my friend's misfortune is drumming through my fingers, ready to be sent forth to the selfish little scumbags who hold her iPhone in their clammy clutches. Oh, that'll do. Message composed, I press send. Fury via text message is unleashed through London and over the Channel, winging it's way to a thieves sweaty hands in Ibiza.

"Fear not", I type onto the PiB's Facebook wall, "Have sent a suitably abusive message to your phone in the event of some horrible irk finding it and being able to translate English swear words. Just doing my duty maam. X"

The next morning, with hangover and vague recollections of spending a lot of time staring at my phone screen the night before, I check my handiwork.

Oh. Good work. Very threatening.


Nothing says outrage like a well placed exclamation mark.

Escaping the noise

For the last few days, I've been sampling the wonders and delights of central London living. The Flat is proving to be a great convenience, and I've drifted seamlessly into a life where going out in Old Street means leaving ten minutes travel time, rather than the five hours I'm accustomed to on my local tube. Days spent lolling about on the sofa watching The Lion King and deciphering Donnie Darko have succeeded nights out that end with a short ride on a night bus, rather than spending forty grand on a taxi. In short, I'm pretty much sold on this (admittedly rent-free) living arrangement.

There's just one thing.

Going from detached housing to attached-on-every-side-imaginable does have it's drawbacks. Lesson one: noise.

With Neighbors Above seemingly running from one side of their flat to the other, and Neighbours Beneath  getting the party started, it's been a fairly amplified weekend. Granted, the Boyfriend and I like our music loud and bassy or not at all, and have spent most of the weekend bombarding our ears with that and the drunken in-ear shouting of friends anyway. But once home and nursing hangovers, the sound of silence has been a little bit harder to come by.

A deep, underfloor bassline - courtesy of Neighbours Below - began while we had a few pre-beer beers in The Flat on Saturday evening. Unbothered, I assumed that "Well, at least if they're starting now, they'll be knock-out all day tomorrow." But, err, very occasionally, I have been known to get things wrong.

We left the civilised Neighbours Below and Friends chatting on the patio and hopped out into Angel to meet friends, returning - falaffal kebab in hand - six hours later. The party downstairs was still in full swing; a bigger group now eliciting chatter that drifted up along with the house beats beneath our living room. We played 'guess the tune' before alcohol's secondary effect set in.

The next thing I know, it's 6:30am. I wake up on the sofa, the Boy's form curled around me, and my movement nudges him awake. "Mhrrrr. Hmmm. Shall we go to bed?" and then, as jump-up drum 'n' bass replaces the temporary quiet, "Oh, bloody hell. They're still going". The fast bassline ripples into the bedroom and permeates my dreams, and by 8:30am we're back on the sofa, unable to sleep.

"They've got to be on something." I comment, as the music switches to an underground selection of tech-house and gets louder, despite the voices outside remaining surprisingly civilised. "If they were drinking, they'd be yelling or asleep by now".

The morning ticks on towards afternoon. We eat a late breakfast to the rumbling sounds of Notorious BIG, attempt TV above some Booker Shade and finally, at lunchtime, decide resistance is futile. The fact that London's free tourist spots on a Sunday offered a quieter solution to our hangovers should go someway to describing what we were leaving behind.

Returing from a day at the British Museum and Tate Modern around 5pm, we made tentative steps into The Flat. "I think they've gone to bed" said The Boy, flopping on the sofa. He was right. The bench outside, littered with empty glasses and other bottled remains, was void of people; the Technics now quiet.

We clicked on the TV, but as we stopped talking and started watching, it came to me. I turned to the Boyfriend and pointed to the ceiling.

"The XX."
"What?"
"Someone's listening to The XX" I said, as the sporadic prods of deep bass in Islands merged into the low, continuous sub-rumble of Fantasy. 

We sighed and clicked the volume up a notch. The Neighbours Above and Below might be interrupting my Sunday quiet time, but I can be thankful for one thing. At least they've chosen good music and decent sound systems to do it with.

"In Switzerland, you buy watches. In Japan, you buy sushi. In London, you buy…I dunno, a bag of coke or something. In New Zealand, you drink.”

True to my word, last week was spent Getting On It in a very lively hostel bar in Paihia, a town in New Zealand’s northern Bay of Islands. After a few nights of excess, me and a Swiss Girl I’d got to know decided to have a a break from the booze, i.e. we’d still go to the bar, but just for One Drink. The perceptive among you will have probably already guessed that One Drink did indeed turn into many more. But with limited money in our pockets, the One Drink and the ‘many more’ were nooooo bought by us. It was brilliant. We walked into the bar, ordered our drinks, handed over the money, and then! A backpacker miracle. It was handed back.

“They’re paying” said the Maori bar lady, pointing to the three Kiwi blokes brandishing a credit card next to us.

As the drinks arrived at our up-turned barrel, so did the Three Kiwis and a random Japanese Girl who spoke very limited English. Luckily, the blokes spoke Japanese. Language barriers aside, we chatted, we pissed ourselves laughing for an hour or so, and any attempts to leave after One Drink were soon abandoned with the reasoning in this post's title.

So with our pints of cider abandoned for glasses of ‘C-C and ginger ale’, which I now know means copious amounts of whiskey, we moved from the Hostel Bar to the Bar Next Door. Then after picking up more booze, on to the Kiwi’s room at the YHA up the road. Unfortunately, being hostel rookies, the Kiwis hadn’t realised they would also be sharing with two unsuspecting backpackers. We clattered, we giggled, we woke them up and pissed them off (“Sorry for waking you all up." said the sympathetic Kiwi. "You’ll clearly need all the rest you can get before your day of scenic tours”), the Kiwis had a brainwave. We’d head to the beach, a whole 50 metres down the road in their car. That way, we’ll have music and won’t have to carry the alcohol all that way.

By this point, it’s 2am. After a stealth maneuver down the road, we’re parked next to the beach. Car doors open, music blaring. Corona and vodka flowing.

“I know!” said one of the blokes upon seeing that the seafront benches were wet, “There’s a tarpaulin in the car. We’ll make a tent!”

Next thing I know, the six of us have each latched onto this idea and a corner of a huge rattly plastic sheet, and, screaming with laughter, attempt to sit underneath it on a patch of grass. Then a voice pipes up.

“Umm, I think the police are here”

One head pokes out of from under the tarpaulin.

“Oh, shit. Everyone, out of the tent!”

One by one Three Kiwi blokes, a Swiss, Japanese and British girl emerge from underneath a huge blue sheet by the side of the road, just in time to see a second police car arrive on the scene. Swiftly followed by a third.

We hang back while The Kiwis turn off the music and do the ‘What seems to be the problem, officer?’ routine with a group of five policemen. We watch as conversation turns into laughter. A cigarette is swapped. Then one of the Kiwis takes a seat on one of the police cars as they continue to chat. We approach. “Yeah, just a few noise complaints. It’s all good, we’ve just got to stop drinking.” More pleasantries, and we decide to make a move. And no, the police wouldn’t give us a lift up the road so that we wouldn’t have to carry the booze (we asked).

The six of us zig zagged back up the road to their hostel room, snorting, giggling the whole way, and continued the party in whispers outside their still-occupied room. The clock hits 4am before the Swiss girl and I head back to our respective dorm rooms and crash into bed. One drink my arse.

It’s 8am when the sliding door of my room crashes open.

“Fishing trip! Fishing trip! Where is she?” I raise my head off the pillow. “Ah! There she is. Fushing trup!”

“What? No! Mhhhrrrrrrr"

“Come on! Put some gel in your hair, get your swimmers. You’ll be right. Anyone else?”

The three pissed Kiwis poke their heads into the bunks of the roommates I'm yet to be acquainted with, also woken by the early morning call to arms. “Fushing trup? Where’s Swiss girl?”

“Bloody hell.” I said, to no one in particular as the call of ‘fushing trup' dissolved into the next room and the next, before disappearing altogether. “What a night.”

I have the distinct feeling that these three weeks are going to fly by.

Sun is shining, the red wine is sweet...

I'm still out in France, and the guilt of leaving to come here instead
of taking the interview for a job left me as soon as I'd finished my
first lap of the pool.
There have been eight of us out here since Wednesday, a mixed group of
20-somethings all relaxing, drinking and partying in the sun.

As the only girl still up the night before last, I joined the four
boys in a game of cards; the rules being that the winner of each round
nominates someone else to finish their drink. The only thing left
after a night of revelry was red wine; a plastic 5 litre cask bought
from the local supermarket for 5 Euros. Surprisingly drinkable (this
is France, it was local produce), we topped up our glasses and begun.
After a few rounds, I came in the winner and had to nominate someone
to finish their drink.

In my infinite wisdom, and I was feeling pretty smart to be honest, I
uttered words that were to become my downfall.

"Urrrr, (burp), there's a loophole! No one said it had to be just one
person! ALL OF YOU DRINK!"

I soon found out that the only problem with making four people down an
entire glass of red wine each...is that you then have 4 people ready
to reap revenge on you.

I lost the next five rounds.

And after a 5am vom-athon wake-up call, I learnt my lesson.

Always stick to spirits.

Happy Skivvies Day

It had been an inadvertant late one. Once they realised Leicester Square was still the epic non-event it always has been, the two girls decided against joining the majority for a night of extortionate drinks, rancid ming mongs and posing for potential Facebook profile pictures in Soho dive Penthouse; opting instead for the last train back to their neck of the woods. Back in the local vicinity, the party was just getting started, and they joined other friends out celebrating a birthday. Tequila ensued until 3am. Chatting in the kitchen over falaffal and humous continued until 5am. The sun came up, and the girls bedded down.

We join our famished, hungover pair at 11am on Sunday morning, lying top to tail on a single bed, trying to remember their own names and realising that having money in your wallet after a night out doesn't mean you spent less money, it just means that you were buying rounds that required a card.

"Last night was pretty good actually. Everyone was on form. I'm hungry. You hungry?"
"Yeah. I could eat. Pretty starving. Oh, do you remember getting carried down the ro-"

A raised hand stops me half way through my sentence. I look at my friend, who is leaning down close to the floor and listening carefully. "Hang on" she says. Next thing I know, and she's banging against the wooden bedroom floor with her fist. Stops. Listens. Bangs a few more times.

"What on earth are you doing?" I ask, slightly baffled.
"TWO CUPS OF TEA PLEAAAAASE." she yells, waiting for a response.

Silence. More banging. Footsteps.

"YOU DO KNOW IT'S FATHER'S DAY...." comes a yell from the bottom of the stairs.
"HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. IS THE KETTLE ON? PLEEEEEASE"

Footsteps fade back into the kitchen below us, followed by the sound of running water. Footsteps back to the stairs.

"BOTH WITH SUGAR?"

"YES PLEASE!" we both chorus, "THAAAAANKS!"

I'm laughing my head off. "I love that. Just banging on the floor for a cup of tea. You lazy sod."

She looks at me, grinning. "Haha. Oh that's nothing. Usually I'll just call the house phone from my mobile."


Living at home has it's merits.



PS. Before you send round the "ungrateful daughter" lynch mob, don't worry. She cooked him breakfast.

The 90s come to East London

Yesterday I found myself sitting on the roof of a flat in Brick Lane with the smells of spicy food drifting up from the streets below, the sun shining down and the towering heights of Canary Wharf visible in the distance.

Three of us had crashed into the flat the night before on the way back from a 90s hip hop night in Shoreditch, where we'd raved hands in the air yelling 'OHHH NOOO!' to tracks we hadn't heard in years. Clutching the remains of cream cheese bagels, we'd tottered down a debris strewn Brick Lane and arrived at the flat, joining it's five male inhabitants and watching Fresh Prince of Bel Air on DVD until the sun came up. Before that we'd watched reruns of The Villa on Sky Three, a match making reality show from the late 90s where horrendous single men and "women" took their high waisted shorts and crop tops to a villa in Ibiza to try and find love. Or just a shag. Class all round.

And that's where we stayed. I caught up with people I hadn't seen since me and the ex broke up and did the only thing possible to do when you've had 2 hours sleep: chill, enjoy the silence of a battery-dead phone and talk incoherent nonsense with friends. Still in last night's clothes, with unbrushed hair, unwashed skin and my feet now covered in plasters from a bad choice of shoes, we finally left late Monday night and walked back through Spitalfields to the station. Three sleep deprived girls in short dresses and flat shoes, ambling through East London, the sun slowly going down on our perfect bank holiday weekend.

"Ehhh girls! You off out tonight? Where you partying?" came a leering male yell from across the concourse at Liverpool street station.

Tonight? We're not back from Sunday night yet. Gissa chance.

Another journey well done

Long time readers will know that my habit of mixing hangovers with the public transport has, err, "thrown up" some interesting journeys in the past.

Recently though, I've been alright on that side of things. I've managed, with an intense combination of Berocca, Nurofen, toast, water and sleep, to stave off the all encompassing "oh shit, I'm going to vom" aftermath of a messy night out. However, for the hangover prevention to really work well, I have to return home after a night out to where the kit's kept. But as discussed the other week, getting home from central London is expensive unless it's a shared journey to the same neck of the woods.

Which is why lately it's a given that if I go into central London for a night out, I'm not coming home. It's no longer "what time will you be home?", but "will you be home?" as I leave the house. Now don't get the wrong idea. I'm not a dirty stop out, I'm a pikey one. Basically if there's a spare (unoccupied) bed, sofa, rug, (occupied) dog basket or floor space to be had, I'm nabbing it, saving my pennies and doing that journey home for £2.20 the next day.

So when me, Ben and a few other uni mates emerged, blinking and shielding our eyes against the daylight from a club in south east London on Saturday morning, I had two options. Wait 20 minutes and get the first tube, or hop into a cab with the boys back to their house and deal with getting home in the morning. Being a pikey stop-out, I chose the latter.

Somehow, I reasoned that daylight would cancel out any alcohol that was consumed in the club, so I didn't drink water before bed and just went straight to sleep in Ben's spare room. When I woke up a few hours later, the head thumping began. Then it got worse. After flopping around the house for a while, I knew I had to get the journey over and done with. I felt queasy just looking at TFL's predicted 1.5 hour journey time. Then I realised Camberwell is not a place served by a tube line, in fact, the nearest tube was a slow, crawling, Saturday-traffic laiden bus journey away in Elephant and Castle.

I head to the top deck, and it's packed. The sun is hot through the window. I'm breathing deeply, fighting the urge to BLEUURRRGGHHHHHH on the floor. I look out the window to distract myself from the nausea, and instead see a bloke throwing up on the grass next to a children's play area, overlooked by two community support officers. Twenty agonising minutes later and I'm off the bus in the arse end of London, being approached by a woman who wants to know where the nearest B&B is and telling me why she needs one. Seriously, love - move away before I vom on your shoes. Then I head underground. It's hotter. I count the stops to Baker Street. I get on the next train and realise after clocking the noisy red and white clad army on the platform - to my absolute groaning horror - that the football's on. And they're all going my way.

I last five minutes in a hot carriage with fat, sweaty, drunk, chanting, slurring, B.O stinking, rancid, noisy football supporters "OFF TO WEM-BER-LEEEY, WEM-BER-LEEEYY", before I have to get off and spend a few minutes gagging on the next available platform.

It took an hour and a half, one bus journey, three tubes (one aborted), and a walk: but I was finally home. I'd managed to not throw up, but bloody hell; I'd just completed my very own version of the Flora London vomathon.

I got into bed and summoned the energy to text Ben.

Made it home. Died a little bit on the way. Night.


This money saving thing is going to kill me.

Technology VS Liars

Paranoia. Lovely paranoia.

The world of technology breeds it in immeasurable quantities, like bacteria harvesting it's spawn on an unwashed gremlin. Now everyone's hooked up to email, paper, stamps, mobile phones, twitter, blogs, facebook, there's really no excuse for lack of contact. In fact, there is not one of my friends, bitter or twisted enemies, past boyfriends or recent dalliances that I couldn't contact right here, right now...if I wanted to. Even if not directly, I could contact someone...who could contact someone....who could contact them - but only if I wanted to.

And therein lies the crux of it. When you don't get a reply or people drop off the radar, there's no doubt that 99.9% of the time, it'll be down to nothing but personal choice.

Therefore, a lot can be garnered not only from the response itself, but the lack of it or the speed at which it eventually comes. With every person on the street clutching a phone in their grubby mitts or up against their sweaty little ears, it's hard to believe that hours, or even days without a response can be down to anything other than remote indifference to your witty little words. Perhaps they don't know what to say. Maybe they're busy doing something else. But ipso, facto, deffo: with technology, inaction definitely speaks louder than words: (s)he just ain't interested, sunshine.

Unless of course, you're me.

Who, having assured Leeds Bloke multiple times that "No no, of course I'll get in contact, why else would I take your number?", then proceeded (as we discussed yesterday), to forget his name. The next afternoon, I saved a number from my dialled list as 'Leeds Bloke' (what?) and sent a quick text.

Delivery report: Message pending.

(N.B While we're on the subject, delivery reports are the best invention ever. Oh, you didn't get my message? HA! YES YOU DID! SEE? IT'S HERE! DELIVERED! HA!)

Hmmm, looks like he lost his phone. Probably dropped it into a bubbling vat of acid, or plunged it into a puddle of studenty vomit on the way home. Two days pass, and I decide to investigate the matter further, just to be sure.

Well, accidents happen, and here's proof of how well I function after a week of mildly strenuous activity: I'd actually named, then text my voicemail asking how it's hangover was.

Forget remote indifference, I like to think it was just too busy to reply.

Cheap hotels and housesitting

After a pretty non-stop week, I've come to a halt. A lovely, quiet, sleepy, relaxing halt.

I was going to regale you with a drink-by-drink account of how hectic life has been since Friday, but we're all friends here so let's face it - you probably don't really care, and I can't be bothered to tell you. I can, however, recommend an Etap hotel for any group of 6 ex-university housemates looking for cheap, clean, city accommodation to supplement their night out in Leeds. I mean, don't take your girlfriend there or anything, but if your sole reason for going to a city is to meet 5 other girls and boys, dump your stuff, hit the town, eat, drink, be merry, get the £9 entry to a club reduced to £0, party on down, pull a hot 20 year old, leave at 3:30am, stumble back to the hotel, forget your room number, try your card in every door on the floor without any of their occupants shouting the odds at you for disturbing them - mostly because they're not in yet or are too inebriated to care - then jump on your two friends who got in earlier, climb into the bunk above and pass out until the hangover-friendly check out time of 12pm, this is the hotel for you.

I've now skipped east to Hull for a few days, where I'm staying in a family friend's empty house and have time to write, relax and eat the entire stash of Jacob's Club bars I've just found hidden in their kitchen.



Epic.

Early start to the weekend

See, now this is why I love blogging. Every time I click publish on a post like yesterdays, where I'm usually in tears as I'm writing it, the comments are always just spot on. This morning as I sat in bed at a mates house, I retrieved the emails on my phone and read them all, thinking how they all just made so much sense. All the advise and 'that happened to me' stories have really sorted me out. Thank you!

Clearly, yesterday did not start out well. Between crying and sorting out the cat, who seems to be spiralling into a feline form of dementia, I realised I hadn't really been making the most of half term. Yet with London on my doorstep and an afternoon to kill, I couldn't think of one place I wanted to go. I felt almost agoraphobic about leaving the house but knew I had to get out for a few hours, so I shoved on a dress, some boots, and headed to Oxford Street.

Within half an hour I was worrying about how I was going to get from Bond Street station to Selfridges without killing someone, The Ex demoted to back of brain once again. Then, an amazing thing happened. I went to the French Connection concession and saw a dress I've been lusting after for a while but couldn't justify spending £75 on. I stared at the ticket price. £25? I checked with the sales assistant. The dress was indeed in my size, my ideal colour, and £25 - limited edition for Fashion Week. I grabbed it, headed to the changing rooms, tried it on and decided that for £25, I'd buy it and get it altered to fit. As I was standing at the till, the girl next to me was also buying it, but she had the size down. "Oh, thats a shame. I needed the 6 really. Never mind". She looked up and replied "Well, I wanted the 8. We can swap?" and just like that, I got my dress...and my smile back.

Then my Partner in Breakup / Make up / Break up again called, her and a friend were heading out to a few bars, did I want to come? Off home to get some heels on, then back into town again. Two bars and a taxi ride later and we're at the doors of Whisky Mist in Mayfair. Now usually, I'd avoid this kind of place like the plague. But last night, spurred on by my need to get out, do something I normally wouldn't and get out of the hole I was in, we wormed our way past the clipboards and into what can only be described as the strangest place I've been for a while. With no sign of any A-Listers (thank god), we danced, drank extortionately priced drinks, and got spun around by random men underneath the mirrored ceiling.

With no work the next day and no money to get even close to home, I hopped into a black cab and headed back to my Partner's house for a 3am bowl of Shreddies and burnt toast.

This morning, dressed in last night's clothes with unbrushed hair and bleary eyes, still drunk and giggling, we walked to the tube and I headed home to bed.

The moral of the story? When in doubt, go out. I think this is the first hangover which has ever actually perked me up.

Sohohohohoho

Having recently declared my need to "party on down", "get on it" and "tit about like we used to", last night four single ladies (including my PIB - Partner in Breakup - a friend whose relationship and employment demise echoes mine) braved the cold and headed out into the West End to put plans into practice. It's all too easy to succumb to the warmth and comfort of a friend's house at this time of year, and although I'm never one to turn down a night in front of the telly with a glass of wine and a pizza, there's only so many 'girlie nights in' a girl can take before cabin fever sets in.

Fantastic, I thought, as we wondered in to a quiet bar off Oxford Street, grabbed a table and a bottle of wine and got chatting. It was a mixed crowd; a few couples here and there, but we were the only group of girls. Even better, I mused, as the bar began to fill up with groups of good looking men. That's nice, I pondered, seeing blokes arriving and meeting other lone drinkers on the surrounding tables.

It took four London born and bred girls longer than it should have done to put two and two together: the perfectly shaped eyebrows of those around us and our close proximity to Old Compton Street, the heart of London's gay scene. Bah.

So we embraced the Soho charm, wormed our way into a club, then after a few tequilas (etc) the two of us still able to function decided to head to Camden. I am reliably informed that my PIB threw up on the night bus home (and again this morning), that another of our party woke up at 11:30am in her own bed but fully clothed down to the shoes, and that I stayed in bed until 5:30pm this evening and have yet to get dressed.

A successful evening all round, in my book.

Sorry blog, I'm a liability.

New Year was a little bit mental. I have vague recollections of being pushed along the road in a shopping trolley at half past 3 (woah there rebel), getting to bed at half 6 and, as I have a tendency to do when drunk, giving people clues - yes, clues - about how to find my blog.

Why do I always think thats a good idea when I'm pissed?

Luckily I stopped short of giving the actual web address, although to be honest, had there been another tequila, this blog, it appears, could have been anyones.

So you'll forgive me if things get a little ambiguous around here in the hope that any avid searchers (who, after I admitted to having big old blank spots where the first hours of New Year should have been, in return happily revealed that they "never not remember when drunk". Bastards.) on the google warpath for my online sanctuary might be hindered by lack of information.

I'll the donning the proverbial moustache, beard, wig and glasses for a while.

Shhhhhhh.

If anyone asks, my name is Mungo.

I think I missed a day

Friday was a little bit crazy.

Crazy in the way that it didn't seem that crazy at the time, but the next day you wake up, blearly eyed with a full face of make up and unbrushed teeth - thinking "What the hellllll went on last night..."

Vodka. Cocktails. Gin. That's what went on. And lots of it.

A few people including myself were leaving, and it was also Office Hotty's birthday so the full team were out in force; first stop our local cocktail bar where it was 2 for 1 during happy hour. Office Hotty and his graduate friends defied the "eating's cheating" rule by popping off for dinner, but not before the birthday boy came over and asked for my phone number so he could "find out where we all are later". Ahem. The rest of us toddled off to another Camden haunt to continue the send offs and well, this is where things get a bit blurry.

It seemed perfectly normal to be receiving phone calls from Office Hotty asking where we all were, even more normal when he arrived and we stood chatting at the bar for ages. Normal when it reached 12am and, realising that some people were putting their coats on to leave for last trains, that we stood and carried on talking. Then with the clock ticking past 1am, I put my coat on and he did too, and again it seemed like a normal progression. Normal when half hearted attempts were made to get into a closing Camden Town station for trains that had already left, and normal when we wondered down the road aimlessly and then sat at the bus stop and continued to chat.

(About what, I'm not too sure. I think we established I was single. And that he was not.)

After 20 minutes or so I told him to get going, knowing he had a girlfriend waiting for him and a journey to South London to get to her. We hugged, chatted some more, hugged again. My bus came, and I drifted the rest of the way home in a cab.

Me: At baker street waiting for a cab. How u getting on? Thanks for waiting x
Him: Also in a cab! Bus to Elephant and Castle wasn't running. Could get pricey! Waiting wasn't a problem. Quite the opposite in fact. xx

I woke up on Saturday with the most god almightly hangover, equal if not worse than THIS ONE. Yeah, true story. Luckily I could stay in bed all day, which I did. Then I was sick at around 5pm, again at 6pm, cancelled my plans for that evening and went to bed at half 8. Seriously, whatever it was that went down the night before had culminated in the hangover to trump all hangovers.

And on to today. I woke up thinking it was Saturday. Didn't park on certain roads because the restrictions were no parking 9-6pm Monday - Saturday. Then paid for my parking ticket at the shops this afternoon even though on a Sunday, it's free. Was completely baffled as to why most of the shops were shut. Annoyed, even. I just could not work it out.

All in all, this has been a very strange old weekend. A big, blurry, hungover, wipe out of a weekend. What was Friday night about? I don't know. How did I feel so awful when I'd drunk no more than I usually would? I'm not sure.

Good fun, though.

Back in the game?

My first Christmas party of the season kicked off last night, some bash in Whitehall (yes, we did walk there via 10 Downing Street and yes, we did sing "Gordon Brown, texture like sun" as we went past) courtesy of the company who handle all our travel bookings at work. Cue 500 staff from different companies spread over 2 rooms, with a free bar and, most importantly, toilets with chaise lounges and separate dressing tables for you to touch up your make up. Schweeet.

Then the lights went down (as did copious amounts of fizzy stuff, deffo not champs, and white wine) and we got down to cheesey Dave's mobile disco until the unearthly time of 11pm. Yes people, 11pm. Hardcore. That's probably a good thing considering the 5 of us from my company had gone to the pub after work to kill time before the thing started, and the only food on offer were meagre canapes which people swooped on like vultures as soon as they emerged.

And after a huge amount of goading, more fizzy stuff and a lot of drunken convincing, I did my own swoop on an unsuspecting male by tapping him on the shoulder, pointing to an old bird dancing nearby and asking "Is she with you?". Oh yeah, I've got all the lines.

What was simply meant to be an exercise in reaffirming to myself that I am still visible to attractive members of the opposite sex (I say attractive, from what I remember he'd caught my eye early on but let's call him the best of a pretty horrendous bunch) has had actual consequences. Namely texts. Two. Both from him. None from me. One to the tune of "Hello gorgeous, did you have a good night" which I ignored (quite rightly) and then an even more unexpected follow up, "wow texting you twice with no reply what a loser!did you have a good night?"

What to do, what to do.

Remembering his name might be a good start.

Finding out his actual age might be another.

Then again, what's the point? I clearly can't be arsed with it.

Number swapping I can handle. Any more than that? Nah. Not yet.