Although Anna is a colleague she is also a friend and a bloody great drinking partner.
So last night Anna and I decided to have a drink at the longest champagne bar in the world, at St Pancras International train station. We had just got off a train back from Fucking Luton.
Since Anna only lives about 500 metres from my house, after a bottle at the champagne bar we moved to a pub closer to home.
During the course of the evening we discussed straight men and their obsession with anal sex, which of our colleagues are probably crap in bed and we debated whether "cam sex" counts as cheating. Anna is a gay man in a women's body.
I have a vague tally of what I drank because I paid by card and can see from the receipts:
Half a bottle of champagne
Three gin and tonics
Three vodka and cranberry juices
A bottle of white wine.
I remember stumbling home but I don't remember going to bed. I woke up naked, splayed out and cold. I stumbled over to the alarm clock and decided to give myself an extra hour to sleep in.
Finally getting up, I crashed about and in about half an hour I was out the front door. At the corner shop I bought some Berry Lucozade.
Now on the Jubilee Line, the train just out of the station and there's a problem. I am flush, sweating and hot with bloodshot eyes while reeking of alcohol. I was the smell of a fart away from throwing up. I'm on a fucking train that is not moving.
It was at that moment that I realised that I was still very drunk.
At Bond Street tube station I got to the top of the escalator and just stood in the corner.
As humanity changed from one train to the other I was stood, pissed. Being shit-faced amongst freshly showered London commuters on a Friday morning at 8.30am is a very bizarre experience.
I got to work and had a bacon roll. And another one. And Red Bull. And my cheeks were flushed. And I stumbled around a bit and bought some chewing gum to hide my breath.
I'm never drinking on a school night ever again.
Do you know, people rabbit on about athletes' endurance, "ohmygod, he ran a marathon from one peak of Everest to the other" and "he cycled from Sao Paulo to Vancouver - isn't it incredible what the human body can achieve?!"
Hello! I drank nearly three litres of alcohol and had four hours' sleep between two 14-hour days. In the process I withstood the Jubilee and Central Lines, three Red Bulls and two bacon-butty sandwiches plus another few glasses of champagne at lunch on Friday.
I'd like to see others poncey goddam endurance athlete beat that.
If skank and crusty alcoholic weekday tendencies with boozy breathe and blood-shot eyes was an Olympic sport, I'd take gold every time. At least I'm good at something.
(Thank you dear body for putting up with what I put you through.)