As you might have guessed from my last post I had a night of freedom last night. It involved considerably more gin than I’d intended. It was a fun night. But the trouble with a) getting older and b) becoming a drinking lightweight thanks to abstinence caused by pregnancy and breastfeeding is that the resulting hangover does tend to hand around far more than it ever used to.
That’s not necessarily a problem if you can stay in bed all day and sleep it off. Not a chance. I had a kids’ party to attend. This morning. For four hours!
Still, it turns out that give Noodles and Boo access to a trampoline and they’re happy. Easy-peasy. There must surely be worse places to suffer a hangover. Including…
Having to be nice when wishing the whole world would just disappear. Especially harsh if your previous night’s drunken exploits have happened in the vicinity of your colleagues. Still, at least you’re going to be paid for your suffering.
Either it’s been a very good night or a very bad one if you happen to find yourself sat in an emergency room. Waiting times can be hideously long, plenty of time for the onset for a hangover. The hard plastic seating, strip lighting and exceptionally bad coffee are hard enough to endure as it is. To do so with a banging head and dodgy stomach is even less fun, especially if there are some tricky questions that need answering. And you’re certainly not going to get any sympathy as others are in a far worse position and not necessarily through self-infliction.
Trust me on this one. The night before, as the ship tossed and pitched in a force 10 gale, drinking in the bar was preferable to feeling queasy in the cabin. The following morning the sea will feel as choppy as your mind. Sea legs aren’t aided by hangover jelly legs and ferries seem to specialise in a very particular line in nausea-inducing greasy fry-up smells. Drinking a gallon of water before disembarking is also a very very bad idea. Rehydration is a good thing, but the four-hour coach ride home is going to make you feel as though your bladder is going to burst.
Ah, the joys of yet another school trip.
In a foreign country
Particularly if it’s a different country to the one you started your night in. And you don’t have your passport.
In someone else’s bed
I would imagine. I’m not that sort of girl, I’ll have you know.
The queues, the screaming, being thrown violently around on various rides, dazzling happiness at every turn, the It’s a Small World theme tune. When your look and demeanour out-scare Cruella deVille you know you should maybe just go home.
On a photo shoot
Again, a true story. It was a family shoot to back-up an exercise in trying to get my lazy-arse family to pull their weight with chores (I had to charge them for any chores I did for their benefit without help – a great idea in theory, but it didn’t work). The photographer showed up at our house (bad enough) but with no make-up artist or stylist in tow. After pre-Christmas drinks with some old uni friends the night before I was suffering. The pictures were hideous. And the company never sent me my cheque, so It wasn’t even worth the humiliation.
The only good thing was that I didn’t have the police knock on my door like my friend did. The headline, and indeed the story, could have run very differently had that been the case. Although I did learn a lesson that night: if you think it’s a good idea to get the bartender’s attention by flicking a beer tap on, then think again. Those things break surprisingly easy when mishandled. Although I would still maintain it was the bartender’s fault for only serving the pretty, young (probably underage) girls rather than us.
Ultimately the only place you really want to be waiting out a hangover is in bed with a copious supply of paracetamol, non-alcoholic beverages and bacon sandwiches.
Where’s the worst place you’ve had to endure a hangover? And what’s your top hangover cure? How unfair is it that Never Hungover isn’t sold in the UK?