The runaway bruncher
This is probably the longest period I've gone for in my adult life without visiting a bar or nightclub. Curb-side kebabs, drunken arguments, waking up with a face full of makeup (and a brain full of beer fear) feel like a distant (though no less traumatic) memory. Bozo, I mean BoJo’s (sorry, Freudian slip of the fingers) lockdown restrictions have not only been devastating for the 100,000 (ish) hospitality firms across the UK. But also for the thousands of students (and others like me who can't let go of being students) across the country who can’t spend all their money on overpriced drinks and entry fees.
So, to cheer us would-be-party-goers up (and to remind myself why it's probably a good thing that I’m now physically unable to go out out), I’m sharing a tragic tale with you about another of my biggest flaws...the fact I frequently turn into a kind of Usain Bolt meets Dora The Explorer hybrid after a few drinks.
Below is one such tale.
The tale of the runaway bruncher
This tale of tragedy begins (as many of this kind do) with a bottomless brunch. (Oh how I miss you my dear, sweet friend & worst nightmare rolled into one). And, it takes place in that most magical of geographies, Milton Keynes.
This particular brunch had DANGER written all over it from the off. I had somewhere to be afterwards which was about an hour and a half away (very risky). And I had to travel alone, on public transport to get there. (Risk level off the chart, I should never have been allowed to go).
I also had the grim (but annoyingly accurate) predictions of my boyfriend ringing in my ears, 'you better not end up in some far-flung place Meg, we have somewhere to be this evening'. So I paced myself far more than I usually would. (Yes, really). I drank water in-between pints of prossecco, and left plenty of time to get to the station before my allotted train.
But, despite my best efforts - disaster was foretold.
I should've sensed the warning signs along the way. (There was some bad juju in the air that day I'm telling you).
Firstly, the fire alarm started going off a few minutes into our brunch. Metaphorical and literal alarm bells I blissfully ignored. The Universe was saying 'get out now Meg, run whilst you still can'. But instead I stayed and smiled as they gave us 15 minutes extra time for the inconvenience. (Danger danger.)
Secondly, shortly before the end of extra time, one of my fellow brunchers (who hadn't been attempting to take it slowly) downed her drink and triumphantly slammed it onto/into the table. Another forewarning. Just like the glass, my dreams of catching the train without a hitch were soon to be shattered into a million pieces.
As we'd all travelled from far and wide for the brunch (and because most of us were feeling naively optimistic about the various states we were in) - we headed off to another venue for 'one for the road'. At this point, mistakenly thinking I was not very drunk at all - I downed one final beveragino, said my fond farewells and headed (over-confidently) to the station. I had checked and double-checked the route on google maps and left plenty of time to get there.
WhAt cOuLd pOsSiBly gO wRoNg?
I'll tell you what. The nearer I got to the station, the more apparent it became that my virtual maps weren’t taking me quite to the right location. And the more lost I became, the more the alcohol seemed to hit.
It took me over 40 minutes to eventually find the entrance. And I was only able to do so by reluctantly calling back to headquarters (ringing my boyfriend) and having him work out where I was (like an experienced detective locating a fugitive). Stage one of the rescue mission, complete.
I'd left the bar walking in a straight line, competent at stringing a sentence together and with (almost) 20/20 vision. By the time I eventually reached the station, I was barely able to stand, talking in a dialect akin to Jack Sparrow, and physically incapable of deciphering what was written on the train timetables.
Ollie may have thought his services were no longer needed having navigated me to the station. But, unfortunately, he was mistaken. (Ring ring ring ring, Oliver. I have lost control of my eyes).
In (what I can only imagine was) an interesting face-time exchange, Ollie managed to point me towards the right train and platform. It was an hour later than planned, but I'd still get to the end destination with plenty of time before our event. Stage two of the rescue mission complete. (Surely we were home and dry now?)
Having been pointed to the right platform (and told the exact time to board the train), I dutifully stumbled my way there and awaited its arrival. The train pulled in at the allotted time. I bundled on and managed to find a seat next to a smiling older gentleman. As we pulled away, I breathed a sigh of relief. It was all going to be alright.
It was at this exact moment, the overhead speakers rang out - 'welcome to the fast service to Edinburgh'.
Panic seized my whole body. My face flushed red. My arm hairs stood on their end. I turned to the man next to me and managed to squeak out a polite but anxiety-stricken: "Sorry to bother you but do you know what the next stop is, pleeeease".
In a charming, thick accent he replied, "It's a fast train so I believe the next stop is Carlisle. It was a wee bit delayed so I think we might be skipping the next stop to make up time".
Tears pricked my eyes. A lump rose in my throat. My intended destination was Nottingham, so heading rapidly towards Scotland was less than ideal.
I began redialing the number I had hoped not to call again...
Ring ring, ring ring, 'Ollie. I've managed to get on the wrong train and I may end up in a different country...'
Rather than dumping me on the spot (which would’ve been a fair response), ever calm in a disaster, detective Ollie was on the case again:
'Okay Meg, don't panic, please stop crying...I know you didn't do it on purpose...Let me work out which train you have actually ended up on here...ah it looks like it is going to make a stop...at Coventry. You will have to disembark there and I will collect you'.
Queue James bond music as he jumps into his car and drives halfway across the country to fetch his damsel in distress. (The drive from our house to Coventry station is just under 2 hours, so he was probably feeling less James Bond and more mouldering resentment by the time he collected me.)
Shortly before I got off the train, one last mistake for the road was to take place. Somehow oblivious to the disaster unfolding next to him, the elderly gentleman asked if I wouldn't mind fetching his bag from the overhead compartment. I agreed, thinking this would be at least one thing I'd manage not to fuck up today. As I grabbed the (heavier than expected) bag the train jerked and I managed to snap one of my (newly glued on) acrylic nails in half. I imagine you are all now pulling the 'ehhh bet that hurt' face - and you would be correct.
A bloody end to a bloody awful journey.
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And that was the long, dramatic and event-filled story of how I managed to nearly loose my boyfriend and my finger in the same afternoon. We ended up making it to the event on time in the end. Living proof that miracles do indeed happen!
The moral of this tale is don't behave like a stubborn Trump monster and leave your inevitable, regrettable and embarrassing exit until the last moment. Depart your bottomless brunch as early as physically possible if you have somewhere to be afterwards. And, if you're anything like me, perhaps consider bowing out before it even begins.