A Love Letter to my Hangover.

It’s been a hot minute since I poured myself a voddy soddy, turned the speaker volume to full and embarked on an unforgettable (or hugely forgettable) night out with my housemates. To re-ignite the glory days, I thought I’d take a nostalgic trip down memory lane by dragging up the disorientating – yet strangely comforting – recollection of a killer hangover.

8.46 am

At first, I blame the abnormal force needed to open my eyes on the fact that there's an obscene amount of daylight filtering in through my blinds. Upon second review, I realise I've accidentally left on last night’s mascara, which has made a nice little home in the crevice of my eyelids and show no sign, whatsoever, of leaving.

8.49 am

While I lie tangled in my duvet, I carry out a physical inventory. Luckily, I’ve narrowly escaped any major damage, noting nothing more than some muddy ankles and several smudges of makeup covering both the sheets and my clothes.

8.59 am

The last 10 minutes have been strenuous to say the least. Making the mistake of checking my phone, I start to relive the events of the night before. Thankfully, there are no incriminating texts or missed calls from anyone of potential danger, however I have just received a notification of 10 photos sent through WhatsApp.

9.00 am

Don’t check. Don’t check. Don’t check. Don’t check. Don’t check. Don’t check.

9.02 am

I checked. Not sure why mother nature has it in for me, but I have about 10 chins in the first photo and am sweating excessively. I put the phone down before I start to do my mental state any harm. After reaching around tirelessly for any container that could potentially be housing some water, I make the heroic decision to venture into the kitchen.

9.06 am

Wading through various obstacles of glitter, balloons and banners (the last house birthday was a month ago), I finally make it to the kitchen. In this one journey, I note the following:

· I had managed to put my pjs on the right way round despite going to sleep at 4am.

· I successfully retained my keys, phone and debit card (not that there’s much money on it anyway).

· Upon standing up, I actually think I’m good. Get some water and carbs in me and I’ll be ready to rock and roll this Sunday!!

9. 07 am

While making a beeline for the tap, I see my housemate lying on the sofa – apparently she’s nursing ‘the world’s biggest headache’ and doesn’t think she’ll ever recover. I smirk at her, ‘what a weakling’, I think, again priding myself on being completely fine – if not a little dehydrated.

9. 12 am

Turns out I’m still drunk. I down two glasses of water and rummage around in the fridge for anything resembling food, settling on some damp lettuce leaves and slumping down on the sofa.

9. 30 am

After some rapid-fire questions of last night’s events, my housemate and I decide to assemble the others for a full debrief. A WhatsApp is sent and we watch old reruns in tense anticipation.

11. 30 am

It takes a full 2 hours to rouse the troops and get them in fighting shape, but we are now all squidged onto the sofa, cups of tea in hand. One of us starts off with ‘RIGHT’ and we get straight down to business, starting in chronological order and stating any potential gossip as if it’s the news.

12. 30 pm

After a below-average breakfast, I decide to make myself a hearty lunch. I opt for the student classic: some pesto pasta (the green kind, OBVIOSULY), and some cheese if I’m feeling particularly gourmet. After all, my phone says I walked 12,000 steps last night so I deserve it.

12. 45 pm

I feel slightly queasy but altogether fine. I can definitely sense the alcohol slowly leaving my bloodstream and it’s like a sad, albeit relieving, process of mourning.

13. 00 pm

Someone has just outrageously volunteered the idea of a walk. Living in Wales, it rains about 360 days of the year. Today is no exception to the rule. The absolute AUDACITY of a walk when I am in this VERY fragile state is honestly offensive.

No. Absolutely not doing it. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.

13. 30 pm

So we’re on this walk. The foggy mist covering Cathays is comical pathetic fallacy as we aimlessly trudge like zombies through the maggot infested streets – someone left their food bin outside on Tuesday, which has served as a neat little feeding ground for larvae and seagulls alike. Dressed in an eclectic mix of outrageous outfits, we've collectively labelled ourselves as ‘trashy chic’, which involves a customary pair of pj bottoms, an oversized dirty jumper and a hat to cover up the eye bags and greasy hair.

14. 00 pm

We’ve found ourselves in the middle of town, eyeing up some sausage rolls and not being able to make any form of rational decision. One person makes the executive decision to get one and the rest ensue in a feeding frenzy. No morsel of pastry remains as we exit, the startled Greggs staff following us with their eyes as we parade out like a wild, slightly dysfunctional girl band.

15. 00 pm

Okay so NOW the hangover has hit me. Is this what the end feels like? I think the walk has started to take it’s toll and I’m not sure how cooked that sausage roll was. Might go and call my mum like the nice little daughter I am…

19. 30 pm

Shit. Resting my eyes to gain the strength to dial mum’s number turned into a full-on nap and now it’s basically night-time. Oh well, time to go and have the final snack of the day: an apple and some peanut butter (got to keep up the 5-a-day, you know).

20. 00 pm

The mood of the hallway reflects the mood of the house: completely worn out and stripped of any enthusiasm until tomorrow. There are some rumblings of a Netflix show being watched here, a belated shower there, but overall a tired yet satisfied acknowledgement that the weekend is over, it’s time for bed.

Tomorrow, we’ll be ready to start the week afresh, restock our alcohol supplies and cook up some energy to start all over again.

*Dedicated to the heroes of 13 Richards Street who always get me through a rough hangover – whether it’s through kindness and attention or telling me to stop crying at Tim Chal Youtube vids. You know who you are ;)*

Abs xx