Social Hurl

You know things are desperate when the first thing you Google of a morning is 'Burger King'.

Last night was interesting. Kate and her brother had a party in their 12th floor flat to watch the various fireworks displays around London. It was extremely, violently fun. I had a lot to eat and a lot to drink. Then I went to the bathroom and was extremely, violently sick. I mean violently. I haven't been sick from alcohol misuse for 11 years. But my god, I made up for lost time. I was so sick that I saw food that I last ate in July. Tears and sweat streamed down my face. It was awful. To add insult to injury, while I was vomiting, I remembered that someone once told me that bulimics have to vomit within 45 minutes of eating otherwise the fat in the food is already being stored by their body, and I'd eaten way more than 45 minutes previously, so I wasn't even avoiding weightgain. Livid.

There was not a chance that I could go back into the party to say goodbye. I turned right out of the bathroom, grabbed my bag, left the flat and soon found myself on the Embankment near Lots Road. I remember thinking that my footwear was unsuitable, so changed out of my boots into my trainers. Then I lurched off in the direction of my flat. I couldn't even remotely walk in a straight line. I was staggering, hair everywhere, still sweating, still wondering if I might be sick again, desperate to get home but uncertain whether getting in to a moving vehicle was sensible. I jolted east for god knows how long, spitting occasionally (yup), and eventually realised that I was really quite far from home. So finally I got in a cab. £4.20 later I had to ask him to let me out as the sickness was imminent. I stumbled the rest of the way home, a good couple of miles, made it to my bathroom, and then was sick again.

I woke up this morning at 09.31, precisely 31 minutes after I should have been seated at my desk. I texted my boss and told him I'd forgotten to set my alarm (true) and then rushed to work, although I had to get off the tube at Borough for a rest from the swaying carriage, which was taking my nausea levels from 'dangerous' to 'red alert'.

I had a Coke at 10am, which helped, and a gargantuan McDonald's at 12, which was fantastic. I feel much better now but despite drinking a litre of water, a can of coke and then a large coke with my McDonald's and a chocolate milkshake, I haven't had a wee since 09:32, which gives me some indication of quite how worryingly dehydrated I am. I still feel somewhat weak and feeble, and am perhaps over-emotional, given that I saw the headline 'Which minature animals make good pets?' on the Guardian website and was so excited by the concept alone, I welled up. I would question the idea that there is anyone alive who wants a Pygmy goat more than I do.

I certainly did have too much to drink last night, but, I'm afraid to admit, no more than normal, and I was wondering if my reaction was disproportionate, until I found out that someone else at the party was sick too, having drunk a lot less than I did. I now am convinced that we both had a reaction to something we ate. Sure, I was drunk, drunk enough to think it was acceptable to take back the slab of Hotel Chocolat deliciousness that I'd given to Kate, but I wasn't that drunk. I am never sick. This was odd. Anyway, the good news is that I had a really fun time at the party, from what I can remember (Kate kindly texted me today saying that I had been on 'brilliant form'), and I have £12.50-worth of chocolate in my fridge. I'm slightly surprised I wasn't arrested on the way home, but other than that, it was a splendid night.

Does my bum look big in this?

On Friday night I went to Katherine's extremely fun birthday party - it was the first time I've gone along to a party where I knew only the host and it was brilliantly easy to chat to her delightful friends, lots of whom live near what will hopefully become my new flat. Lovely. The only small downside occurred at approximately 10pm when I was standing near the bar and a gentleman knocked into my shoulder. He was not the first person to have pushed past me and, a few glasses of Pinot Grigio the wiser, I was lairy enough to spin around and jokingly say, 'Would everyone please stop bumping into me?!' His response was unexpected. It was: 'Well, if you didn't have such a massive arse, I wouldn't have banged into it.' I must have guppied for a bit too long because he continued, 'Don't get me wrong, it's a lovely arse, but it's huge, and you should accept that.' I then found the power of speech and said something along the lines of: 'Normally I wouldn't sink to the level of retaliation, but on this occasion I'll make an exception. Your hairline is receding and it's very unattractive. Plus you are far, far too drunk for this early stage in the evening.' He mumbled something about having passed an Ofsted schools inspection and lurched off, not before throwing his parting shot, 'Besides, your hairline's receding too, and you're a girl.'

Well. He got the last bit right: I am, indeed, a girl. But I have to admit, it wasn't that particular accusation that upset me. Let's all think about my arse, shall we? Even after a couple of months' fairly steady weightloss, there is absolutely no denying that it is in no sense a small one. Pert, petite, firm, delicate, peachy: none of these adjectives are spot-on. But it is a comfortable UK size 14, which is the average clothes size for women in this country, so surely a more accurate description would be 'medium', rather than, as my new friend so delicately put it, 'massive'? Massive arses require more than one seat on an aeroplane. Massive arses demand special sizes in jeans shops and rule out the wearing of shift dresses. My arse, I am confident, is not massive.

Since this incident, both the male bystander who witnessed the incident and a male friend I asked about it last night immediately explained that the man definitely fancied me and was trying, albeit utterly ineptly, to flirt. How hilarious. Boys are even more ridiculous than I thought - and I'm more relieved than ever not to be affiliated to one at present. If you need me, I'll be on the Stairmaster.

Beaker, Joy Of Man's Desiring

Last night I went to a drinks party held by a schoolfriend and her husband. They are a great couple and their new house is everything I'll never be able to afford. The party was a huge success and their beautiful living room was packed with merry Londoners celebrating the first evening of December in style. It wasn't all smooth running, sadly, as Simon and I were (albeit briefly) the victims of a very specific discomfort: that unique sense of panic experienced when you are the only members of a sizeable group who are wearing fancy dress. The invitation had stated that the dress code would be 'Nativity' and although we had not originally planned to make any effort, I had spoken to another friend during the day who had bought several elements for her and her husband's costumes, including an inflatable sheep and a rosette, and it became clear that we too should step up to the mark. I cobbled together a Mary outfit from a long blue dress and purple chiffon headscarf, and grabbed my beloved Beaker as a worthy substitute for the infant King. Simon wore my mother's green ethnic dressing gown over an Indian shirt, jeans and sandals, and completed his Joseph look with a long walking stick from the Lake District and a pair of terrifying sunglasses. Thus armed, we arrived at the house and walked confidently into a room filled with grown-ups and strangers, all of whom were dressed in a manner that could be described with many complimentary adjectives, none of them 'fancy'. Simon used the envy-inducing Roaring Log Fire complete with Enormous Wooden Mantlepiece as an excuse to remove the sarong from his head almost immediately, but I kept my head-dress on for a while longer, buoyed by our hostess' gargantuan plastic angel wings and white smock. Eventually some other characters recognisable from the synoptic stories arrived and I felt slightly less exposed.

Last night's event was also significant as it was the first time I have been to a party given by one of my peers where there has been a waitress. There is no doubt that her presence greatly assisted our hosts, but nonetheless, when the best I can do at my own gatherings is blindly panic that no one has had enough food or that my ice cream and butterscotch sauce dessert isn't classy enough, attending a house party where there's someone handing round smoked salmon and tiny quiches was a new experience. Initially, I must admit, I felt slightly uncomfortable, but after a seventh glass of champagne I found myself fully adapted and keen to secure the services of a similar assistant for any events I organise in future. All being well, I will find an extremely lucrative and socially worthwhile job in the next few days and will be able to employ permanent staff before the year is out.