The Alcohol Related Fail (Part Two)

Hello men, women and sea life,

                               Hope you are all well and enjoying February immensely. What's not to love about a month that changes its mind about how long it is every few years?

So, today's blog, I am ashamed to say, involves myself having drunken a wee bit too much alcohol. I shall say at this point that drinking excessive amounts is not a good idea, especially whilst in the public arena where there are cameras and sober friends present.

Anyway, this particular night I had gone out with my friends and gotten very drunk, I don't really know how, I think when you aren't accustomed to drinking (which I wasn't at the time) you get lulled into a false sense of security. You've had a bit to drink, the world is looking good and rosy, and you start to think, yeah, I can handle one more glass of wine, I feel completely fine, and I'm making great conversation and I feel great. Then you stand up and the world shifts and you realise maybe four glasses of wine and a shot of tia maria wasn't such a fantastic plan. I won't go into the hairy details, but needless to say the dinner I had consumed that night didn't make it to my digestive system.

I was driven home to a friend's house, complaining and woozy, and ushered into bed where I fell into a heavy slumber. The next day I felt pretty awful, my mouth tasted disgusting, my head was throbbing, and I was getting horrendous flashbacks of attempting to get into a club and being informed that I was not in my best state and should probably go home (as you can imagine, I took it well). All I wanted to do was go home and rest in my own bed, snuggle up under the covers and act like last night had never happened. However, when I got back to my house, I could not find my house key anywhere. Worriedly, I emptied my bag, I checked my pockets, checked in the car, nope, nowhere to be seen. Oh no. I had work the next day, and I suspected turning up in a miniskirt and reeking of sick wasn't appropriate waitress etiquette. My parents were away on holiday in Filey. There was no spare key. I had no choice but to ring my father, who very begrudgingly drove three hours to let me into the house, and then drove all the way back to Filey. Needless to say I was not in his best books that day.

The thing was, later on I found the key wedged in my trainer. I'm not really sure what it was doing there, but I learnt a long time ago not to question the logic of my brain. I didn't dare admit to my dad that I had the key all along. I wasn't sure it would go down too well. So I would just like to take a moment now to say I'm sorry father. You drove all that way for nothing. But hey, you told me you'd never let go of me when I was learning to ride a bike and you did. I'd say this makes us about even, agreed?

The Lost Chocolate

Hello and welcome. It is very chilly here in good ol' Britain, and weather like this always makes me look back nostalgically on summer holidays. Which leads me nicely into today's blog, which is set on a plane on the way back from a holiday. Ooooh, I hear you all say, sounds good, tell me more. ...Well, I will.


So, my parents, my friend and I had been on a beautifully warm holiday abroad in Tenerife, and we were aboard the plane ready to return to our homeland. It's annoying going from different climates as you never know what you should wear; should you wrap up so you're snug when you land, but risk melting waiting at the airport for your flight for two hours? Or should you go bare legged, and risk sitting next to an air-con happy passenger on the plane and catching an unpleasant draft? It is a conundrum. I had gone for jeans, a T Shirt and a back-up cardigan. It was Easter so it wouldn't be too cold in England, but I was prepared just in case.

So, the journey was going alright, although I'm not a big fan of planes (how do they take off? Just, how??) and as it was a longish flight we got fed lunch (yum) and for pudding we got these little chocolate Easter bunnies (the only kind of bunny I wouldn't feel sad to eat). Now, my mum being the kind and thoughtful woman she is, gave me her chocolate, which I decided to save for later on. However, after dinner a film came on and me and my friend got chatting and I forgot all about my chocolate. Until I got up at the end of the flight, and realised there was a big brown stain on the seat I had just vacated. At first I was a bit confused as to what it was, had I shat myself without realising? I mean, I did get a bit nervous during take off, but surely I would have noticed such an occurrence...

 Then I remembered.

 The chocolate mother had so kindly donated, melted into the seat by my warm buttocks. Oh deary me.

Goodness knows what the air hostesses must have thought it was. I got off the plane pretty sharpish in the hope they wouldn't know it was me. But sadly the embarrassment didn't end there. My friend was stood behind me when getting off the plane, and she discreetly informed me that there was a noticeable amount of chocolate stuck to my bum. As soon as we got into the airport I dashed to the toilets to take a look. It did not look good, and no amount of desperate scraping and wiping would shift it. In the end, my cardigan came to my rescue; I had to tie it round my waist for the rest of the journey home. Even though it was blooming cold, it was better than people thinking I hadn't made it to the toilet in time.

So, if you are ever stuck with the conundrum of what clothes to wear on the plane journey home, always pack a cardigan. You never know what humiliation it can be used to cover up.