Every time I tell myself I'm going to stay in and avoid the killer hangover the next day, in the hope that I will actually do my work, the inevitable happens. Saturday night, I had plans to go to the library the next day and blast through an essay due in for Friday with Bea. I was coming back on a train from London, having felt faint and sick all day, and Milly texted me to say she was coming out. So I thought there'd be no harm in going out sober...
...didn't last long.
When you think about it sensibly, it's never going to be a good time if you're sober and your mates are trolleyed. Realistically, as it turned out, you find yourself pushing through the middle of the dance floor, having never noticed when intoxicated before just how wet you get from the smear of everyone's sweaty backs. Desperately hoping to get outside and some air, when your friend drunkenly starts arguing with you about something you're not drunk enough to care about.
Saturday was alright in the end, because seconds in to arriving, sober, at the union I bump into Bea, who's said we'll hunker down in paperwork the next day, and she's completely gone. Collapsing laughing on you on the dance-floor as you shout 'library tomorrow then'. Maybe not, as it turns out. She then went outside for some air and 5 minutes later me and three other boys were trying to twist her stiletto out of a drainage system, whilst she was howling with laughter.
That was the point this weekend where I thought 'screw it, I'm having a drink'.
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