After a tense 20 minutes, a lull ensues & my brimming bladder & I Usain Bolt it to the relative safety of the bathroom. I do the quickest of turnarounds my hangover allows, which is really not that fast, (mainly because it involves an unflushable gin poo) & before long I am on my merry way, retracing my commute back to River Island HQ. I surreptitiously pull into the car park with my shades on, feeling super bad ass but also kinda worried that if anyone catches me in the act then a) I’ll look like a right twat b) I could get escorted off the premises. Still, I park my car as close as possible to the target & sneak, not unlike one of those classic, pointy-toed cat burglars of old, past security & shimmy successfully in to staff shop. I’m in. Thankfully luck is on my side & I don’t see any familiar faces, though with my hair hanging Cousin It style over my face to avoid detection, the truth is I actually can’t see any faces. I just train my eyes on the rails & methodically begin to raid the place from top to bottom.

I am on the search for practical items; t-shirts, plimsolls & waterproof jacket, all being the aim of the game. So it’s no surprise when I walk out with three bandeau dresses, an assortment of intricate undergarments, & the most extravagant peachy beige, faux fur sleeved coat ever to grace

the face of the planet, plus a pair of high heeled, much anticipated, black, patent, winter boots. £83 later, I walk out with a bag under each arm without as much as a raised eyebrow. Mission accomplished

After dropping the swag off at Mr. Juns I head into town & swing by STA travel.

I chat to Sarah in the Covent Garden branch & was one of those annoying customers who take up hours of your time playing around with itineraries but ultimately has no intention of booking with you. Sorry Sarah. Halfway through I also nip out for an hour long makeover at the Charlotte Tilbury flagship store around the corner, where they do a fab job of concealing my hangover, to the point Sarah hardly recognises me upon return. Then it’s a pit stop with burning man bredder Pete for some grub & quick cocktails to toast my new funemployed status before heading east for a right royal River knees up…

Now in hindsight I probably sound have stayed an extra week at work to avoid sharing my leaving night with Mofe’s brother. Pretty much every RSVP was

“I would love to but I’m going to Mofe’s brothers birthday.”

After the seventh identical response I started to get irritated. Mofe is a gorgeous, bright, young, blossoming buying assistant on one of my favourite departments but who the hell was her brother & why was everyone & their dog going to his birthday?  It had got too much on the prior Monday when I erupted with

“You don’t even know Mofe’s brother. You know me! What the hell?!”

& I went on … “Mofe’s brother has birthdays every year. My invite is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

But it transpired they DID know him. He works in menswear & it was his 21st. Whoops, how embarrassing. Good job I was leaving. Still, where was my invite!? Anyway given this date clash, I was extra delighted to find a table full of colleagues, drinks in hand, taking full advantage of happy hour when I arrived. I ordered 4 porn star martinis myself, given the BOGOF status, figuring it was still coursing through my veins from the night before & downed one quickly before nipping to the ladies to change into my full regalia. My handbag had half the inflatables from the last two days stashed inside & I intended to give them one last outing. Up they blew & what an entrance I made back on the dancefloor, cutting a strange figure on the backdrop of what is actually quite

a swanky city establishment. Ladies in their knock off Herve Legers sauntered around me as I bust a move mimicing the movements of my newly discovered spirit animal – the Catingo, a feline, flamingo hybrid.

Midway through the night I remembered the glitter I had also brought along for the occasion, & before you know it I’ve tagged everyone in Vaseline & am chucking glitter in every direction possible. Men, women, children… no one was safe as I forcefully inflicted it on all & sundry. Tom Daly the esteemed Olympic diver on the next table unknowingly had a close shave as I made great strides towards him before my friend Gemma strategically intercepted the tackle, narrowly avoiding a tabloid headline the next morning.

A few people leave to go to… yes you guessed it… Mofe’s brothers birthday, so under pressure to entertain I decide this is the moment to turn it up another notch. It’s Friday night, I’ve quit the rat race & I’m with some of my favourite faces so what else do you do when you’ve got no income & a finite amount of savings in order to fulfil your dreams… you order this of course–>

A giant sharing cocktail. Yep, its friggin’ ginormous & at £175 a pop its friggin’ expensive too but for some reason I act like its petty cash, refusing to accept anyone’s contribution. I was in full on baller mode. Here’s hoping the laws of attraction were paying attention.

Of course we go selfie mad & I dance myself stupid doing MJ impressions & dramatic dance routines along the length of the bar, & a good time was had by all. But after a while we decide to switch locations & the night ends in Blues Kitchen on Curtain Road where a friend of ours Zoe is celebrating her birthday (thankfully these lot didn’t know Mofe’s brother) & we keep the good times rolling. Though it’s touch & go at one point whether the next stop is A&E, as I less than gracefully headbutt Laura at approx 50 mph getting out the taxi. Again, massive apologies love.

The music is pumping & we throw shapes, & let loose like our lives depend on it but there is a wave of emotion creeping up on me, & potentially a tinge of buyers remorse. I wander off for  a time-out & sip tap water at the bar trying feebly to make up the balance on my prior shark shaped expenditure. I meander around reminiscing about my earlier days as a Marlboro girl at the start of my “career.” I used to sell fags to patrons in this very venue when it was called Bar Music Hall many moons earlier, dressed in a lycra catsuit with a Wonderbra pushing my size b’s up to my chin, desperately trying to draw attention from the inevitable camel toe.

I don’t know how long I spent on this delightful amble down memory lane but when I go back everyone has disappeared except Zoe, who is immersed in what looks like a dance off with her parents, (yep her super cool parents Joyce & Jack party with the best of them. That’s Scots for you.) I find my worldly possessions stuffed under a table & make for the door, a little tear rolling down my face. This is it. Goodbye to all that I had been familiar with the last decade. I’m practically out the door when I bump into Susan, who I adore & leaves me with some precious last words, advising me to be careful with my feelings, wishing me all the luck imaginable & proclaiming fits will never be the same. I feel choked to the maximus but swallow down a sob, hug the life out of her & dial an Uber.

I whimper all the way back to the ghetto & when I arrive at Juns, instead of going up to bed, as one would expect, in a do not pass go, do not collect £200, fashion, I slide into the passenger seat of my car & really turn the waterworks on. Alcohol is a strange mistress I tell ye. Despite such an awesome night I sob my little, green eye-sockets out. Crying out of sadness, relief, fear of the unknown, & out of plain drunken abandonment. I recline the chair, turn on the radio & get into full on blubber mode & it’s over an hour before I finally, exhausted by emotion, drag myself up to my cardboard walled cubbyhole to sleep it off.