The Perils (and fun) of the Demon Drink
New Year's Day seems appropriate for this story, given that 90% of Scotland is probably nursing a hangover from last night or working on tomorrow's hangover (January 1 and 2 are statutory holidays in Scotland). Celebrations to usher in the New Year in Edinburgh started Friday evening with a torchlight procession from Parliament Square to Calton Hill, for the ceremonial burning of a Viking longship and effigy (a nod to northern Scotland's Viking ancestry), Saturday was the Night Afore Party on George Street (a big street party) and Hogmanay (the eve) itself was to be an enormous street party in Princes Street and Princes Street gardens but had to be cancelled because of the weather (60 mph winds and rain). I'm sure the pubs and clubs were teeming with people though and, Hogmanay being the most important celebration in the Scottish calendar, the whisky and haggis would have been flowing. If you look at http://www.edinburghshogmanay.org/index.html soon, you'll get more details and some pictures.
This wee story is about pre-Christmas over-indulgence, which took place in Harry's Bar on the Wednesday before Christmas at my office lunch. Lunch began at 12:30 and lasted, for some of us, until midnight. This was just the corporate department, with about 25 people, most of them young lawyers and lawyers-to-be. The more staid, sensible middle-aged members of the group (this doesn't include me) left in the late afternoon, leaving the rest of us with a pub full of drink and no food after lunch.
The area of the office where I pretend to work is a little isolated and I had only got to know about five or six people by the time of the lunch, being more on simple nodding terms with the rest of the department staff. The big law firms in Edinburgh (as elsewhere) are extremely competitive and the young lawyers doing their articles (called traineeship here) and newly called to the Bar are very ambitious and hard-working. Some of them are so busy and industrious that I'd only ever seen them glued to their desks, typing furiously with eyes never leaving the computer screen, or doing corporate-speak on the phone.
Well - get a few drinks into these people and - you guessed it - hard partying animals come to life. There were more than a few Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations (not in the same nasty J & H way of the fictional character). The women weren't as much of a surprise to me as the men because I've shared a bit of girly gossip and shoes-and-handbag talk with them so had an inkling of their personalities. Those guys though - their short conservative hair was definitely let down. There were shooters being passed around (tasted of cough medicine) and one lawyer ended up behind the bar pulling pints (he's apparently a regular enough customer that they allow him to do this now and again). There was music provided by a DJ and, at one point, the lot of us took up the dance floor doing some form of drunken Scottish country dancing, with lots of reels and dizzy twirling and being propelled from one dancer to another. No wonder I lost an earring.
Fortunately for me (because I'm not much of a drinker and get drunk easily), I switched from wine to water early enough to prevent me from publicly disgracing myself. There was nonetheless a bit of a stagger as I made my way to the bus stop on Princes Street, chewing on a wad of gum as I negotiated the step onto the bus, trying not to trip or fall over on the way to my seat and hoping no-one would notice my drunkenness. After replying to Meredith's three e-mails (where are you mummy?), I drank water, took some Tylenol and fell into bed just after midnight, no doubt rattling these old walls with my snores.
Imagine my shock and horror when the alarm clock insisted I wake up a bare seven hours later. The illness of a hangover makes me wonder how people can repeatedly and wilfully poison their livers like this. Oh wait - it's because the act of the poisoning is so much fun. Shower, coffee and exposure to a raw Edinburgh morning didn't clear my head and I was ravenous by the time I got to work (nothing to eat since lunch the previous day) so I bought a Cornish pasty still warm from the oven and devoured it at my desk. Everyone showed up for work (one without a coat - she'd lost it the night before and had to take a taxi to work because she didn't have any other coats) and one of the hangovers had brought in a big bag of bacon rolls (lovely Scottish bacon on a soft roll with lots of butter) for us. The Cornish pasty had only filled one of my stomachs so, of course, more devouring had to be done. No dinner the night before remember - packing food in was imperative to prevent me from keeling over in a state of malnutrition. I hate it when that happens. I inhaled a couple of chocolate biscuits from the huge tin at the coffee machine, just in case I started feeling faint from low blood sugar. You know how it is.
Now here's the moral of this long-winded tale of bacchanalia and the consumption of [delicious and so worth the calories] food that isn't as good for you as your usual yogurt and fruit: I had a job interview at 11:30 that morning. With the City Council, for a job as a debt advisor, which I really wanted. Head thumping despite drugs, combined with a brain made of porridge, all I could think of was lying down for a nap. Instead of planning my interview strategy while on the bus to the Council offices, I fantasized about how lovely it would be to sink into my bed and fall into a deep sleep. I could taste that nap. I was past caring about the fact that I'd been too drunk the night before to iron a white blouse so that I could look crisp and efficient.
I was useless at that interview. To start with, I didn't much like the two women who interviewed me (this always affects my interview performance) and my befuddled brain made it impossible for me to try and baffle them with bullshit and charm, which is one of my usual tactics. The two of them were also very hard to read, but I was feeling too ill to care very much. Although they'd told me ahead of time what the key question would be and I'd come up with what I'd thought was a brilliant answer, I blew it by being inarticulate and scattered. Usually pretty good on my feet, the disappearance of grey matter just made me fumble for answers to questions I knew the answers to but which I was somehow unable to grasp. I was all over the place (yes I KNOW I'm always all over the place - just shut up) and simply couldn't stay focused long enough to answer a question without rambling on and on. The more distracted I became by the longing for food and sleep, the more rubbish I spewed forth. Jaysus - what a bloody nightmare. And I was starving the whole time.
Luckily, the corporate secretaries lunch planned for 12:30 that day had been postponed to accommodate me so I was able to drown my sorrows with a Chinese buffet (they pronounce it "boofie" here) and two bottles of mineral water. I was informed when ordering a glass of water that tap water could only be served if I was having something other than the boofie and I'd have to buy bottled water. If I'd been in my right mind, I would never have let them away with such cheek.
So it didn't come as a surprise to receive a letter on Friday from the woman I liked the least, pretending she was regretful that my application was unsuccessful. Don't worry lady - I'm OVER it.
I sent out 12 letters last week, selling myself to accounting firms as the fiercely efficient insolvency administrator they didn't know they needed until reading my CV. And when interviews are scheduled, I will not be imbibing beforehand. In the interim, though, I've got another two weeks to terrorize the guy I'm currently working for, followed by further secretarial slavery until someone finally recognizes the need for me to go in and whip them into shape.
Happy new year!
This wee story is about pre-Christmas over-indulgence, which took place in Harry's Bar on the Wednesday before Christmas at my office lunch. Lunch began at 12:30 and lasted, for some of us, until midnight. This was just the corporate department, with about 25 people, most of them young lawyers and lawyers-to-be. The more staid, sensible middle-aged members of the group (this doesn't include me) left in the late afternoon, leaving the rest of us with a pub full of drink and no food after lunch.
The area of the office where I pretend to work is a little isolated and I had only got to know about five or six people by the time of the lunch, being more on simple nodding terms with the rest of the department staff. The big law firms in Edinburgh (as elsewhere) are extremely competitive and the young lawyers doing their articles (called traineeship here) and newly called to the Bar are very ambitious and hard-working. Some of them are so busy and industrious that I'd only ever seen them glued to their desks, typing furiously with eyes never leaving the computer screen, or doing corporate-speak on the phone.
Well - get a few drinks into these people and - you guessed it - hard partying animals come to life. There were more than a few Jekyll-and-Hyde transformations (not in the same nasty J & H way of the fictional character). The women weren't as much of a surprise to me as the men because I've shared a bit of girly gossip and shoes-and-handbag talk with them so had an inkling of their personalities. Those guys though - their short conservative hair was definitely let down. There were shooters being passed around (tasted of cough medicine) and one lawyer ended up behind the bar pulling pints (he's apparently a regular enough customer that they allow him to do this now and again). There was music provided by a DJ and, at one point, the lot of us took up the dance floor doing some form of drunken Scottish country dancing, with lots of reels and dizzy twirling and being propelled from one dancer to another. No wonder I lost an earring.
Fortunately for me (because I'm not much of a drinker and get drunk easily), I switched from wine to water early enough to prevent me from publicly disgracing myself. There was nonetheless a bit of a stagger as I made my way to the bus stop on Princes Street, chewing on a wad of gum as I negotiated the step onto the bus, trying not to trip or fall over on the way to my seat and hoping no-one would notice my drunkenness. After replying to Meredith's three e-mails (where are you mummy?), I drank water, took some Tylenol and fell into bed just after midnight, no doubt rattling these old walls with my snores.
Imagine my shock and horror when the alarm clock insisted I wake up a bare seven hours later. The illness of a hangover makes me wonder how people can repeatedly and wilfully poison their livers like this. Oh wait - it's because the act of the poisoning is so much fun. Shower, coffee and exposure to a raw Edinburgh morning didn't clear my head and I was ravenous by the time I got to work (nothing to eat since lunch the previous day) so I bought a Cornish pasty still warm from the oven and devoured it at my desk. Everyone showed up for work (one without a coat - she'd lost it the night before and had to take a taxi to work because she didn't have any other coats) and one of the hangovers had brought in a big bag of bacon rolls (lovely Scottish bacon on a soft roll with lots of butter) for us. The Cornish pasty had only filled one of my stomachs so, of course, more devouring had to be done. No dinner the night before remember - packing food in was imperative to prevent me from keeling over in a state of malnutrition. I hate it when that happens. I inhaled a couple of chocolate biscuits from the huge tin at the coffee machine, just in case I started feeling faint from low blood sugar. You know how it is.
Now here's the moral of this long-winded tale of bacchanalia and the consumption of [delicious and so worth the calories] food that isn't as good for you as your usual yogurt and fruit: I had a job interview at 11:30 that morning. With the City Council, for a job as a debt advisor, which I really wanted. Head thumping despite drugs, combined with a brain made of porridge, all I could think of was lying down for a nap. Instead of planning my interview strategy while on the bus to the Council offices, I fantasized about how lovely it would be to sink into my bed and fall into a deep sleep. I could taste that nap. I was past caring about the fact that I'd been too drunk the night before to iron a white blouse so that I could look crisp and efficient.
I was useless at that interview. To start with, I didn't much like the two women who interviewed me (this always affects my interview performance) and my befuddled brain made it impossible for me to try and baffle them with bullshit and charm, which is one of my usual tactics. The two of them were also very hard to read, but I was feeling too ill to care very much. Although they'd told me ahead of time what the key question would be and I'd come up with what I'd thought was a brilliant answer, I blew it by being inarticulate and scattered. Usually pretty good on my feet, the disappearance of grey matter just made me fumble for answers to questions I knew the answers to but which I was somehow unable to grasp. I was all over the place (yes I KNOW I'm always all over the place - just shut up) and simply couldn't stay focused long enough to answer a question without rambling on and on. The more distracted I became by the longing for food and sleep, the more rubbish I spewed forth. Jaysus - what a bloody nightmare. And I was starving the whole time.
Luckily, the corporate secretaries lunch planned for 12:30 that day had been postponed to accommodate me so I was able to drown my sorrows with a Chinese buffet (they pronounce it "boofie" here) and two bottles of mineral water. I was informed when ordering a glass of water that tap water could only be served if I was having something other than the boofie and I'd have to buy bottled water. If I'd been in my right mind, I would never have let them away with such cheek.
So it didn't come as a surprise to receive a letter on Friday from the woman I liked the least, pretending she was regretful that my application was unsuccessful. Don't worry lady - I'm OVER it.
I sent out 12 letters last week, selling myself to accounting firms as the fiercely efficient insolvency administrator they didn't know they needed until reading my CV. And when interviews are scheduled, I will not be imbibing beforehand. In the interim, though, I've got another two weeks to terrorize the guy I'm currently working for, followed by further secretarial slavery until someone finally recognizes the need for me to go in and whip them into shape.
Happy new year!
posted by Jacki | 9:28 PM
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