The first work hangover
You don’t really get hangovers, or rather you did fine with them at university, I mean yes we all felt a bit rough at times, but we managed to produce an essay a week and it was totally OK. So of course you can go out now in your first week at work and have a few (20) drinks and Oh My Fucking God what is that sound? Then you realise it’s the alarm and your flatmate’s banging on the door and holy shit you’ve got to get onto the Piccadilly line. You are sick in a bin. You sit at your computer screen inputing data until you think you might die. All day you teeter at the brink of death, going for many fag breaks, eating McDonalds and chewing Orbit – trying (and failing) to disguise the smell of booze and emailing your fellow party-goers about how awful you feel. Then MIRACLE, it is 17:30 and you fall into the pub.
The road trip that wasn’t meant to be a road trip
You have been invited to a country dancing party which sounded improbable so you shouldn’t really be surprised to find that it is actually an illegal rave. The country dancing angle has been a cover. You can’t work out which is more embarrassing: the fact that you went to a country dance or the fact that you didn’t know it was a rave. You clearly don’t have a grip on the 90s yet. All the boys you fancy are dancing on hay bales and sweating, so you get in a car and go to the house of the man your friend fancies in Oxfordshire, vaguely nearby. Which means an hour and ten minutes away. You get lost and have to use a phone box in the village to find out which house you are going to. You play Twister. And then for reasons that are still not quite clear you drive to Birmingham. The next morning you reverse your friend’s dad’s car into a lamppost on the way back from buying bacon and eggs. You don’t tell anyone.
The fresh-exec day
You have your first ever personal training session at your new gym. You see Antonia Fraser in the changing room in a pink towelling robe. You think ‘goals’ although no one said that then. You are at your desk, gleaming, at 9:30am, carrying your new Mulberry bag, eating porridge and feeling like you have all the ideas. You’ll probably get headhunted. After a morning spent emailing your best work friend you go for the healthy baked potato lunch you had agreed upon. Lunch at desk – aren’t we so busy and executive? You can’t remember the rest of the day but it probably involves Topshop (for silky combat trousers) and this new fangled thing called sushi. Then home to boyfriend who… is prepared to admit to being your boyfriend. You are so owning it.
The post-snog date
You meet at your cousin’s house and snog and is his name Tim or Jim or John or something? He calls you – thank god for work business cards – and you arrange to meet the night after at a thing his friend is DJing at. You are wearing jeans and the highest heels you have ever worn from Pied a Terre and you feel sick with nerves and the DJ thing is miles from the tube and will you ever find it? And will you even recognise Jom? Or fancy him? And is he the one? Am I going to be the first of my friends to be happily settled and then will I never have to worry about that part of anything ever again? (Narrator: No) You find the DJing thing. Jom is not there. Oh well.
The girls’ holiday
So off you all pile into someone’s mother’s house somewhere in Italy and it’s going to be so amazing and ‘I’m packing really light, are you?’ No one can lift their case. There is a kitty for groceries but someone keeps buying fags with the money and two of you fancy the same boy next door so you keep pretending to go to bed early and then bump into each other – fully made up – peering over the fence in some kind of horrific baby doll nightie. There is a drunken fight one night that almost gets physical and one of the girls packs and wheels her suitcase to the end of the drive and just kind of stands there for a while. Another girl catches everyone bitching about her and cries boringly for two whole days – but the biggest tragedy is when it’s cloudy for half an hour (THE STRESS) during which time you all pluck all of your eyebrows off.