Pressure

Thanks for the weekend. At least I know I won't have to work late on Fridays cos there's always the weekend to pick up the slack. Well, that used to be the way for me when I was but a wee shiny eyed propellor-head but no longer.

In my first job, weekend work seemed a pretty normal and regular event. The "treat" was that you were picked up and brought into work, had a nice big lunch down the pub and a lift home after from someone. When lifts weren't available, you could get a taxi on the company tab. Sure it was no wonder I had no love life when I was working weekends. Yeah I know, I still had enough time to go on the piss at nights but that was only to let off steam in hindsight. So when I did go out, it was with a mission to get drunk. Very drunk. I was both uninterested in going out to get laid and, when eventually i had consumed enough alcohol to stimulate the testosterone and to have a hardy pair of beer goggles on, I was also incapable of capturing even the most desperate stragglers from the herd. Mind you, it seemed normal and standard enough for me. Both the working weekends and the inability to do anything more than get drunk when going out.

Looking back (which is a redundant expression really cos we can't look forward and looking sideways makes no sense at all), I guess it was a way of handling the pressure. At the time, I thought it was just my immaturity dealing with regular, decent money coming in for the first time. There are probably numerous times I've forgotten what I've done while out drinking during that period. Not that I was an alcoholic or anything, I just liked drinking and getting drunk. End of.

Now one time, I did wake up in my own bed in the house with someone else's clothes on the floor beside me and I was unable to move my right arm much. I was a little worried about the clothes thing cos all the other housemates were guys. Anyhow, it was recounted to me what happened by my pissed off housemates later. Apparently, I'd arrived back at the house with a skinful in me. We started playing cards and I stormed off to bed in the middle of the game. They told me that in the middle of a hand I forgot what we were originally playing, thought we were playing something else and left when I thought everyone was conspiring against me by refusing to let my hand win.

"Ahh, so that's how those cards ended up in my back pocket" I said sheepishly.

I used the en-suite in another guys room on the way to hitting the sack after leaving them at cards, minus the 5 i had in my pocket of course. I never found out why I didn't use either of the other 2 toilets and I passed out on his bed, fully clothed I might add, so no Freudian comments please. Hence, he slept in mine and they were his clothes next to my bed when I awoke back in my own bed that morning. Ahh, you say, but how did you end up back in your own bed? Well, I used the standard bathroom in the middle of the night, fell into the bath, injured my arm (a dislocated collar bone) and was unable to let myself out of the bathroom. I woke everyone up yelling for them to let me out.

"I'm locked in...and my arm won't work...and I can't get out. Help me! Let me out! Open the door for me" etc, etc. I became so focused (if that's the word) on someone else letting me out that I forget one important point.

"We can't let you out! The lock's on your side so use your other arm!"

Then I obviously went back to my own bed and my housemate must've simply avoided me by scooting back to his room. Well, the story was something like that.

I blame the pressure of work and having too much money and too little sense. No honestly, I do. So today, I avoid those extra hours by using my family as my excuse. And now I can drink and get drunk with a clear conscience, knowing that I'm doing it cos I really do like getting drunk and not because of work pressures. Right, now back to my can of Stonehouse.