Was our office Christmas party last night.
I swear I can still taste Moet in my mouth. Doesn't taste as great the second time around.
Twas a fun party. Fueled by champagne and gin and tonics, the last thing I remember before dragging my ruined carcass home, was running around in the snow blower.
The party was held at a gay club in Charing Cross, the walls adorned with
All very surreal. But the best was the snow blower machines. Spraying out flecks of foam, and fake cottony snowballs being tossed at people's heads, and lots of awesome retro 90s techno.
Someone made me do a Jaeger, She Who Also Wears Tweed and I ordered a cheeky bottle of Moet to wash down all the gingerbread men we'd smashed in our faces, and eventually after deciding that my Kate Middleton shoes were too fucking uncomfortable to stand anymore, evacuated the building and climbed - stumbled - into bed past midnight.
In my old age, I have really become quite fond of Christmas. If not for present sharing, but for the mere fact that you can be as stupid and fucked as you like.
Everyone seems to be in a slightly better mood. The food's good too.
But here's the schtick: most people can while away their hangovers behind their computer screens or under the bed covers. Me?
I have to go to the gynae.
I. have. To. put. My. Legs. in. Stirrups.
Dude. You haven't had a hangover until you
All in the name of sorting my endometriosis out for my future babies. That I've vehemently decided that I definitely want.
Hope he doesn't smell the Moet. Er.