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?