Fast approaching my 27th year, something awful is happening to my body, something I had heard was coming and something I never appreciated, something called a hangover!
Currently living in Brisbane, I’m juggling my writing practice with a couple of part time jobs, one being an attendant in a bottle shop.
The main reason we decided on living in Brisbane, of all Australian destinations, was the fact that we already knew a few people here. A couple of Anna’s brothers and another of our friends all emigrated here prior to our arrival.
As with anywhere, opportunities arise through those you know and one such opportunity came about last Thursday when we landed some free tickets to see Xavier Rudd, a talented singer songwriter and multi-instrumentalist, play live.
Having saved money on our ticket, we more than made up for it with alcohol consumed, taking full advantage of the bar promotion advertising $5 schooners.
The gig and the evening on the whole was amazing, not so special however was the morning after.
Throughout my late teens and early twenties, I thought I had actually experienced hangovers. Having previously only suffered from light headaches and slight lethargy, I so wish that I’d embraced those days, taken a paracetamol and gotten over my blissfully ignorant self.
Alas, the morning after came about and within two minutes of emerging from my slumber I found myself looming above the toilet, reproducing booze from the same hole I had, the night before, been pouring it into. This was followed by a headache like no other and a pathetic weakness in my muscles, my leg strength akin to that of a newborn deer.
As perilous as my situation was, something of greater concern was approaching, a shift in a shop exclusively selling alcohol. I would be surrounded by vessels containing the substance of my demise and I would be required to lift large quantities of these throughout the afternoon as the delivery men wouldn’t be sympathetic to my plight.
Freelance Writing, My Saviour?!
I have never been somebody who’s woken up and muttered the bullshit phrase “I’m never drinking again”. I don’t posses the will power nor the desire to curb my weekly binges so if they happen to fall outside the safe haven of a Friday or Saturday night, I am going to need a job that I can complete from under a duvet and with unlimited access to takeaway food, I’m going to need to work from home.
My relationship with alcohol isn’t so severe that I actually need to shape my entire life around it but I am spontaneous and I don’t do things by halves. Have I ever found myself in a fine establishment the night before a shift, the shift has been known to suffer as a result.
I’m writing this piece of satire as, on more than one occasion during my tenure on that fateful day, I thought of my writing and thinking of the freedom that one day will give me.
Working freelance can allow me to work exactly when I want and exactly where I want.
If, some day in the future, my favourite band happen to be playing in Bristol on a Wednesday night then so be it, my weekend will become Wednesday and Thursday with Saturday and Sunday replacing Tuesday and Wednesday!
Only I can provide myself that consistency of freedom and until I can learn to say no to, or only go half cocked into a session, such freedom will be my saviour!