Whilst I was getting ready for the night ahead, I have to admit, I was knackered and not in the greatest mood. I don’t think the 40 minute intense workout was the best activity to have partaken in a couple of hours beforehand, as my body was now completely drained and aching. My 45 minute nap had been unsuccessful and eating dinner seemed to tire me out even more, rather than provide me with any energy. But I needed to strive on and get myself into gear.
The night was to entail drinking and general good times at my friends’ house in Harrow. I made my way there with one of my oldest comrades and, as usual, for the duration of our journey we were acting like complete idiots. This is a general occurrence. We can go months without seeing each other and then as soon as we’re in each others presence, our mental age drops by several years. The main act of foolery that sticks out is doing the soldier boy dance at the bus stop for the entertainment of passing vehicles.
It was bloody freezing. Whenever I travel to Harrow it always seems much colder there than when I leave my house. So, for the twenty minutes we were waiting for our second bus, we complained. A lot. I feel sorry for the other people at the bus stop. Of course our complaining was interjected by insightful conversations, such as the kebab shop across the road being the most suspicious kebab shop in existence, due to it being called “Kebabish” and then realising we were perhaps just being culturally ignorant, setting us into a fit of high pitched, girly giggles, which I’m sure the surrounding company greatly appreciated.
After our bus finally arrived, being shouted at by the driver for talking to him, purchasing our drinks (Vodka and the last bottle of Pepsi Max, as they were, so audaciously, out of Diet Coke), and more walking in the cold, we finally arrived at my friends house for “pre-drinks” and then we would make our way to our final destination.
The only other night spent at this house and with these people, didn’t end too well. I drank too much and ended up acting aggressively towards other attendees, who had accidently dropped my bottle of vodka and smashed it. This was most likely a good thing, as I had reached my limit, stumbled past and waved it goodbye, slurring abusively as I went. I didn’t give it too much thought though. Everyone makes a fool out of themselves every now and then and the people who matter wouldn’t, and didn’t, hold it against me. I did, however, vow to not get that out of control this time around.
Before we had arrived, I was under the impression that this was just another gathering at someone’s house. I was wrong. It was in fact a surprise leaving party for someone who was unknown to me. However, after meeting said being, I realised I had actually met him before; he had attended the previous soiree, but luckily there seemed to be no begrudging feelings.
With a bottle of vodka at the ready, the night commenced.
What became a recurring event throughout the night was to measure all those in attendance as they arrived and mark each height on a wall. This was, aptly named, The Height Wall. Tallest of all was the host’s boyfriend, with a height of 6 foot 4 inches, or something ludicrous like that. Guess who was smallest? Yes, it was I, over a foot smaller. It was also discovered that myself and my boyfriend had the leading height difference amongst the other couple’s there. Of course I had always been fully aware that there is a significant void between us, but this helped it sink it. I certainly won’t be ditching my heels anytime soon.
It got to a point where I wanted to take charge of the music. It’s not that what was being played was not enjoyable, but I was drunk and my friend and I wanted to dance. I attempted to alter the music to something more to our liking. I found the iPod, I browsed, but my choices were limited and I have to say, I failed. I had brief success in selecting “Fix Up Look Sharp” by Dizzee Rascal but someone soon changed the track; I don’t even remember dancing to it.
Then there was the crowd surfing. In all honesty, it was never going to work particularly well, but I think our efforts were commendable.
So I was just chilling in the kitchen with my boyfriend, when in walks the main man of the night, announcing we all must make our way into the living room because he wants to crowd surf. Um, what? I was slightly bemused and hesitantly joined the small crowd congregated in said area. I have no doubt in saying that my being there was wasted. As we’ve already established, I’m extremely short and so my efforts didn’t make much of an impact. He did, however, spend a credible amount of time balanced on the willing hands of his friends, in an odd bid of farewell, before everyone collapsed into a mass pile.
After the alcohol had run out and we were beginning to feel tired, we decided to make a move.
At this point it was way past the hour of the last train and after being abandoned by a cab that decided to bugger off after two minutes, due to sheer lack of impatience, we were finally on our way home. I always forget how long the journey takes, so it’s not surprising that my boyfriend had a little nap on the way and by the time we had finally reached our road, I was ready for bed.
Don’t hold me to this, but I may have found my hangover cure: toast.
When we got home, I had the usual drunk munchies and decided that toast was the best option. I seem to have an obsession with toast at the moment, so this wasn’t surprising, and was probably the only thing I was actually capable of preparing. After I devoured my two slices and gulped down a reasonable amount of water, I was hopeful that my efforts would help me avoid the usual sensation of wanting to die the next morning. As to whether it was actually these actions that aided my recovery, I cannot be sure, but toast will definitely be on the agenda next time I arrive home from a night out.
It was a nice, relaxed, evening, miles better than the last time. When you surround yourself with first-class company, the night always has great potential. I think I’ve finally been enlightened to the fact that drinking sensibly isn’t boring. And that toast holds the key to a brighter future.
The night was to entail drinking and general good times at my friends’ house in Harrow. I made my way there with one of my oldest comrades and, as usual, for the duration of our journey we were acting like complete idiots. This is a general occurrence. We can go months without seeing each other and then as soon as we’re in each others presence, our mental age drops by several years. The main act of foolery that sticks out is doing the soldier boy dance at the bus stop for the entertainment of passing vehicles.
It was bloody freezing. Whenever I travel to Harrow it always seems much colder there than when I leave my house. So, for the twenty minutes we were waiting for our second bus, we complained. A lot. I feel sorry for the other people at the bus stop. Of course our complaining was interjected by insightful conversations, such as the kebab shop across the road being the most suspicious kebab shop in existence, due to it being called “Kebabish” and then realising we were perhaps just being culturally ignorant, setting us into a fit of high pitched, girly giggles, which I’m sure the surrounding company greatly appreciated.
After our bus finally arrived, being shouted at by the driver for talking to him, purchasing our drinks (Vodka and the last bottle of Pepsi Max, as they were, so audaciously, out of Diet Coke), and more walking in the cold, we finally arrived at my friends house for “pre-drinks” and then we would make our way to our final destination.
The only other night spent at this house and with these people, didn’t end too well. I drank too much and ended up acting aggressively towards other attendees, who had accidently dropped my bottle of vodka and smashed it. This was most likely a good thing, as I had reached my limit, stumbled past and waved it goodbye, slurring abusively as I went. I didn’t give it too much thought though. Everyone makes a fool out of themselves every now and then and the people who matter wouldn’t, and didn’t, hold it against me. I did, however, vow to not get that out of control this time around.
Before we had arrived, I was under the impression that this was just another gathering at someone’s house. I was wrong. It was in fact a surprise leaving party for someone who was unknown to me. However, after meeting said being, I realised I had actually met him before; he had attended the previous soiree, but luckily there seemed to be no begrudging feelings.
With a bottle of vodka at the ready, the night commenced.
What became a recurring event throughout the night was to measure all those in attendance as they arrived and mark each height on a wall. This was, aptly named, The Height Wall. Tallest of all was the host’s boyfriend, with a height of 6 foot 4 inches, or something ludicrous like that. Guess who was smallest? Yes, it was I, over a foot smaller. It was also discovered that myself and my boyfriend had the leading height difference amongst the other couple’s there. Of course I had always been fully aware that there is a significant void between us, but this helped it sink it. I certainly won’t be ditching my heels anytime soon.
It got to a point where I wanted to take charge of the music. It’s not that what was being played was not enjoyable, but I was drunk and my friend and I wanted to dance. I attempted to alter the music to something more to our liking. I found the iPod, I browsed, but my choices were limited and I have to say, I failed. I had brief success in selecting “Fix Up Look Sharp” by Dizzee Rascal but someone soon changed the track; I don’t even remember dancing to it.
Then there was the crowd surfing. In all honesty, it was never going to work particularly well, but I think our efforts were commendable.
So I was just chilling in the kitchen with my boyfriend, when in walks the main man of the night, announcing we all must make our way into the living room because he wants to crowd surf. Um, what? I was slightly bemused and hesitantly joined the small crowd congregated in said area. I have no doubt in saying that my being there was wasted. As we’ve already established, I’m extremely short and so my efforts didn’t make much of an impact. He did, however, spend a credible amount of time balanced on the willing hands of his friends, in an odd bid of farewell, before everyone collapsed into a mass pile.
After the alcohol had run out and we were beginning to feel tired, we decided to make a move.
At this point it was way past the hour of the last train and after being abandoned by a cab that decided to bugger off after two minutes, due to sheer lack of impatience, we were finally on our way home. I always forget how long the journey takes, so it’s not surprising that my boyfriend had a little nap on the way and by the time we had finally reached our road, I was ready for bed.
Don’t hold me to this, but I may have found my hangover cure: toast.
When we got home, I had the usual drunk munchies and decided that toast was the best option. I seem to have an obsession with toast at the moment, so this wasn’t surprising, and was probably the only thing I was actually capable of preparing. After I devoured my two slices and gulped down a reasonable amount of water, I was hopeful that my efforts would help me avoid the usual sensation of wanting to die the next morning. As to whether it was actually these actions that aided my recovery, I cannot be sure, but toast will definitely be on the agenda next time I arrive home from a night out.
It was a nice, relaxed, evening, miles better than the last time. When you surround yourself with first-class company, the night always has great potential. I think I’ve finally been enlightened to the fact that drinking sensibly isn’t boring. And that toast holds the key to a brighter future.
In the first paragraph I thought I read "as my boyfriend was now completely drained and aching." and it made me wonder... What sort of intense 40 minute workout WAS that? :S Lol.
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