Hangover Hell
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The problem with going out and having a good time is that sometimes you have too good a time. And the only thing worse than going to work is going to work hung-over.
Happy hour isn’t quite so happy the next day in the morgue - a.k.a. office. In fact, I am usually quite unhappy. The unrelenting questions just don’t stop, everyone wants a piece of me, and I end up popping paracetamol faster than is legal in most countries. Is this worse than being hungover at home with a screaming baby? I can’t answer that, but it doesn’t take long to realise this is an incident not to be repeated.
I can feel my worthiness of an employee being questioned not by him - the Boss Man - but by her across the desk, as I become subject to a Pocket Rocket interrogation. I find it hard to imagine that she has ever been hungover at work, or actually ever, now that I think about it. This girl is wasted as an accountant. She should be in the Met. How many drinks did I have? She is like the alcohol police. What time did I get home? And the sleep police. What am I wearing? Crikey, the fashion police too.
The Pocket Rocket isn’t trying to enquire as to whether I had a good evening or not, but firstly to evaluate how drunk I was, and subsequent to that, how hungover I am, and secondly, how tired I am so that she can ascertain how much my work performance will be affected by my lack of sleep. I wouldn’t actually be surprised if she pulled a breathalyser on me and command me to “blow”. It’s got to the point that if she doesn’t walk away soon I will forced to confess that I don’t know how many glasses of wine I drank (too many), what time I got home (can’t remember), how many hours of sleep I had (not enough), and that I woke up on the bed fully clothed with the lights still on. Not a good look.
So I have decided that to avoid such water guzzling incidents from happening again, I will implement a two-drink rule. Only during the week (obviously), except birthdays, of course, and Christmas, and well any special occasion really...
There’s a rule in here somewhere but after that barrage of questions I think I need another drink. Pass me the wine.
I can feel my worthiness of an employee being questioned not by him - the Boss Man - but by her across the desk, as I become subject to a Pocket Rocket interrogation. I find it hard to imagine that she has ever been hungover at work, or actually ever, now that I think about it. This girl is wasted as an accountant. She should be in the Met. How many drinks did I have? She is like the alcohol police. What time did I get home? And the sleep police. What am I wearing? Crikey, the fashion police too.
The Pocket Rocket isn’t trying to enquire as to whether I had a good evening or not, but firstly to evaluate how drunk I was, and subsequent to that, how hungover I am, and secondly, how tired I am so that she can ascertain how much my work performance will be affected by my lack of sleep. I wouldn’t actually be surprised if she pulled a breathalyser on me and command me to “blow”. It’s got to the point that if she doesn’t walk away soon I will forced to confess that I don’t know how many glasses of wine I drank (too many), what time I got home (can’t remember), how many hours of sleep I had (not enough), and that I woke up on the bed fully clothed with the lights still on. Not a good look.
So I have decided that to avoid such water guzzling incidents from happening again, I will implement a two-drink rule. Only during the week (obviously), except birthdays, of course, and Christmas, and well any special occasion really...
There’s a rule in here somewhere but after that barrage of questions I think I need another drink. Pass me the wine.
Here Is The Writer : Accidental Accountant
Accidental Accountant is a twenty-something City girl parading the trading floors of investment banks, wondering everyday how she came to be here. She has been playing the corporate game for the last five years, has a passion for fashion, a fondness for partying, and a love/hate affair with City life. If you’ve ever thought you didn’t quite fit in, welcome to her world (and feel free to get in touch).
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