TWO WHOLE DAYS OFF!!! Oh my god. I’m practically apoplectic with excitement. I’ve had a bath, engaged in a serious amount of depilation, finished my book, and now I’m sitting here, listening to 6 Music and trying to decide how best to spend the next 45 hours. The problem with time off, when you don’t have much of it, is that you (or rather I) get seriously overexcited. And getting seriously overexcited in a small town can have rather terrible and far-reaching consequences.
In London it was fine – I could do exactly what I liked, safe in the knowledge that I was never likely to see any of the people concerned again (except the mates who were witness and luckily they already know and love me). That’s not to say I’m mean or nasty. But I can get a bit, erm boisterous.
I don’t mean to get carried away, and every time I’m off for a night out, I look in the mirror and say ‘Repeat after me – do not get drunk and howl at the moon.’ So far I have yet to succeed.
Take my last weekend off for example – three weeks ago it was two of my best mates’ weddings. It was on a field, on their land, an hour away, and I thought ‘Surely I’ll be safe there.’ I knew that there were going to be a couple of people from my past there, both of whom have rather gorgeous new partners in crime, and I was somewhat nervous about being recently single and feeling a bit overwhelmed. So of course I got rather drunk. And as a result I don’t remember much after about 5pm. I have vague flashes of spectacularly enthusiastic dancing with a couple of my bloke mates, drinking gallons of rum and vodka in the micra and arguing about women and music with another bloke mate, and regularly rugby tackling another of my (increasingly irked) bloke mates to the floor. The only saving grace being that at least I didn’t get off with any of them. I was too busy having fun to do that. As I said, boisterous.
Anyway. I woke up with a blank slate for a memory, and went off to apologise to all concerned, comforted at least by the fact that I was far from the hospital and no doctors or patients would have witnessed my antics, and my cringes were local.
Fast forward five days and my fellow GP trainee flatmate comes home with a strange look on her face.
‘Errrr, E. Did you happen to meet my GP trainer at a wedding last weekend.’
OH GOD. A hollow hole of horror opens up in my mind. I have no memory of this whatsoever. I brace myself for the next sentence, and squeeze my eyes shut in embarrassment.
‘Yeah. He said you were a little worse for wear. But that you seemed very nice.’
OH GOD WHATDIDISAYWHATDIDISAYWHATDIDISAY? I scratch through the bare remnants of mind. I come up with nothing. Zilcho. Nada. I have no memory of even meeting this bloke. Let alone what my sometimes overenthusiastic mouth may have come out with. I hope against hope that I was bland. I sort of doubt it.
Which is why I am slightly nervous about the next 45 hours and what may occur. Oh well. Here goes….