It’s the season of hangover hell
FOR two days last week, as I sat typing at my computer at work, waves of nausea passed through me. I shivered uncontrollably, and ingested so much coffee that my heart seemed to think it was John Sergeant and adopted an odd little arrhythmic beat. But this ailment wasn't the flu that's sweeping London - it was a hangover.
The trouble is, London is awash with parties. The calendar is booked solid till January and for many of us every morning has become a struggle. More so this year, because who dares to pull a sickie? With everyone nervous about redundancies, the trick is to look the strongest of the pack - not the weakest.
Last week's party, the one that has left me so wretched, was on New Bond Street to launch a pop-up Moët & Chandon shop. Barely a sip went down before a uniformed flunky stepped forward proffering a top-up, so it was effectively an all-you-can-drink-champagne party - a challenge to which I rose with gusto. I laughed at my own jokes and flailed about in foolishly high shoes. I tried to engage Alexa Chung in conversation when she arrived to take her slot as celebrity DJ and sent an unsuitable text to my ex-boyfriend. On such a night, who cares about interest rates?
But the problem with the festive season is not the parties themselves, it's keeping up in between them. Hangover days follow a familiar ritual - as I remembered the morning after, when I shuffled to Prêt à Manger for breakfast and from there to my desk, weighed down with carbs and coffee. I took only shallow breaths and made no sudden movement. To stay hydrated, I made pilgrimages to the water fountain 10 times an hour and was grateful for the ad hoc pharmacy on my desk: vitamins, painkillers and a huge jar of multivitamins.
A colleague once told me that, in similar circumstances, she would slip into the disabled loo and press her forehead on the cool, marble tiles for 20-minute bursts. Had I been able to face the long walk there, I might have done the same.
Of course, on top of the usual workload, there is the post-party burden of unexpected calls and messages to deal with. At tea-time, my phone rang. "Hi, it's Steve [long pause] from last night."
Nightmare. A man I couldn't even recall had tracked me down to my desk. I made valiant attempts to end the conversation but weakened and, unable to bear it any longer, surrendered my email address. An extra forfeit, really, having to deal with new friends like these.
Having served my penance, I long for the self-flagellation of January. But no such luck. My diary reveals many more party hurdles to leap over in the next two weeks. The hangover season has only just begun.
