A true story about the day before the day before Christmas. Not too many people were going to be in work on Christmas Eve, but I was one of them. However I’d be getting away from work early to head down to Norfolk to visit my parents.
So on the 23rd I happily went along to the pub for a few celebratory drinks with colleagues. I guess I should have known it was going wrong when I was persuading a Scot that he should love Laphroig at gone 11 o’clock.
Next thing I know, I’ve maybe said a couple of things I shouldn’t have (not to be repeated here), and I’m on the last train.
The last train goes all the way to Letchworth, and guess where I wake up. The driver has a good laugh as I stumble around Letchworth station. For your information, Letchworth is 34.6 miles from Enfield according to the AA. My current pecuniary state means that this is not an option. They carefully lock their waiting rooms at Letchworth so a cold night is endured at the station.
I get the first train the next morning, although how it is that I manage to wake at precisely Gordon Hill I don’t know.
At home I do sensible things like transferring damp clothes from the washing machine to the tumble dryer. This is because I have to pack stuff for my Christmas trip home. Do I finish packing at 5.30am? No, I go to bed.
I awake at 10.00am. I haven’t packed, and I should have been in work an hour ago. Uh-oh.
I don’t go in, and packing takes me until 12.00 when I slope off. Fortunately I have a day’s holiday unused which I check off using the company’s intranet. Not the way to do it.
So kids – alcohol is not big and not clever!