Blurrgh...

Good jaysus. The sun is splitting the stones outside for the first time since January 1990, and what am I doing?

Trying to recover from a cheap lager-induced hangover while watching reruns of The Office (Steve Carrell version). It's like a work simulation. I know somebody at work who could be Dwight. In fact, he even looks like Dwight.

Going outside now before I punch the telly...

Where there's a willie, there's a way

Right, back to doom and gloom, rain and pain and other general fuckmuppetry for me for the foreseeable future.

Work fucking sucks. I come back from my break to find a WHOLE NEW FORM waiting for me. And not only do I have to fill it up, I have to fill one up for each CO as well. I have a lot of COs. That's a lot of writing. And a lot of pain for whoever has to look at them (if they do indeed look at them) because my handwriting is akin to that of a person with Parkinson's Disease attempting to write longhand while simultaneously bouncing up and down on a trampoline. Arse!

Another day of scowling and swearing behind me, I return home to find an invitation to a neighbour's Anne Summers party waiting for me. Yikes.

I'm just as much a fan of laughing at willie-shaped things as the next girl. I've been to Amsterdam and its various, ahem, museums and shops. I couldn't buy anything though because I was laughing too hard and anyway, I kept thinking about the airport security staff and their X-ray machines. In the end I plumped for a willie-shaped ice mould. Which the dog promptly ate when I brought it home. Git.

Anne Summers parties are different matters entirely. I don't fancy being in someone's house amidst girls tanked up on cheap chardonnay who are shrieking over frilly things and shoving great big plastic phalluses into each others faces. I think I would go mad. Besides, Amsterdam is anonymous, these things aren't. I might be subjected to "Whoa Govstooge, did you get a chance to wow himself with the lacy basque?" the next day when I walk to the newsagent for my paper.

Luckily, I have to be somewhere else on the night in question. I'm saving myself some considerable embarrasment.

I'm gonna be sober this Christmas...

I have kept my brought-forward-three-weeks New Year's resolution for a week now. That was to give up getting pissed. Not to give up drinking. Asking Govstooge to renounce alcohol would be like asking the Pope to convert to Pastafarianism. So far I've been slagged twice by friends and colleagues for stopping at Pint No. 4, and, therefore being a fucking wuss.

Funnily enough, I like waking up on weekend mornings with a clear head and the energy to do all the housey stuff I can't do during the week, because it's too dark outside. Especially this time of year. There's only a few hours' light in the day, I like to make the most of them. Otherwise I'd be depressed. And what do many people do when depressed? Drink. Alcohol itself is a depressant, which just adds to the vicious circle of sleeping very late, getting pissed... ad infinitum.

Making a tit of myself at the office do was, I'm sure you already know, the spur for this.

Guurgh!

I have few recollections of the recent office Christmas party.

The meal was lovely. I remember that bit. Plus I was seated next to some colleagues I didn't know very well before now and that worked out nicely.

I also remember singing loud rebel songs in a pub with some equally drunk colleagues while people at neighbouring tables looked on, smirking.

I bumped into a former colleague in another pub. The conversation went something like this:
Govstooge: AAAh howya Margaret!
Margaret: Hello Govstooge, how are you?
Govstooge: Uhurrhuurgh! Bleargh! Burble! (And various other unintelligible drunk person sounds).
Margaret: Eh, yeah. Excuse me, I have to go over here now.

The highlight of the night was when my stomach contents erupted all over the fine wood-marquetry of an upmarket pub door. And I got a fair few spatters myself.

Luckily, no-one else remembered.

I hope.

I have to face the rest of them tomorrow.