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Hi, I'm Lyndsey. I'm a 36 year old Mum from Wales. I have a Masters Degree in Marketing Communications and Public Relations and put it to good use in my work as a freelance Marketing & PR consultant. I also work part time as a fundraising coordinator for a Welsh charity which I absolutely love!! With two jobs, two children, two cats and a handsome man, lets just say I'm a busy lady. 
From 2006-2008, I wrote a column for the Denbighshire Free Press. I was so proud of the feedback I got for this, even the one angry ‘You Suck’ letter to the editor cheered me up no end; it showed that people took notice of what little ol’ me had to say. It’s good to know that people give a rat’s ass either way! So, succumbing to requests from my former fan club (ok, overstating there – readers who had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon) under the March 2014 archive you will find a selection of my early Free Press articles. I’d love to hear what you think on any of the subjects raised…you know, rat’s ass either way feedback ;-)

Monday, 31 March 2014

The Evil That Is Hangovers

Has the night before ever been worth the torture you endure the next morning?  I am attempting to write this article coherently, however the weird floatie things bobbing in front of my eyeballs are just too distracting.  This morning I had feebly begged my husband to take the kids to Stagecoach for me.  My daughter in full theatrical hysteria was more than I could stand!  I literally crawled out of my bed then dragged myself across the floor like a wounded SAS solider to the bathroom.

The kids were in there brushing their teeth and started laughing, far too loudly, at the sight of a wincing, dribbling mum trying to climb up the towel rail before collapsing on the toilet. I ordered them out of the bathroom but my command appeared to be barely audible.  My guts were seriously cramping and the room was spinning so much that I could do nothing but drop my head onto the toilet roll holder.

Half an hour later the kids came to say goodbye.  They found me still in the bathroom, my cheek engraved with the bogroll holder motif.  Through watery eyes I watched my daughter dance around me holding her nose and my son, full of concern, attempting to shove her out of the door.  He patted me on the head and checked my temperature.  Off he toddled to the bathroom shelf and got down a pot of vapour rub.  His little fingers smeared the rub onto my chest and then, attempting reassurance, through my hair and in my eyes as he wiped my tears.  My eyes smarted as my son waved me goodbye and helpfully suggested that I shower as apparently I pong.

Six weeks ago, my husband bought me a present; a stunning sparkly skirt.  It was short, black and covered in sequins and I absolutely love it! With no prospect of a Christmas party this year and no opportunity forthcoming for wearing it in the near future, I committed to a last resort...a night in the local clubs.

Honestly, that's how desperate I was to wear that skirt!  At my age I know better than to think I can keep up with party people a decade younger than me.  Approximately every six months or so , unfortunately I attempt to recapture my party days and each time I end up with my face in bog roll.

Dolled up in my skirt and knee high socks (trendy and also blimmin warm), I looked great...if I was 19 years old.  At 30 however I was paranoid about whether I could pull it off.

In town, surrounded by singletons on the prowl, I felt old!  For starters I wore a coat.  Apparently these days, girls achieve warmth by crossing their arms across their chests and adopting a straight jacket stance.  Drinks are cheap as long as you suck sugary neon stuff through a straw.

Music is the same. Old school hits they call them except now they have this annoying relentless beat pounding through so that every tune sounds the same.  I consider myself to be an excellent dancer but as I attempted MC Hammer moves to modern 'music' the bouncers eyed me, assessing whether I was trollied enough to be removed.

After queuing for ages to get into the toilet, I finally managed to get a cubicle.  Typically it was one where the door lock does not work, so I had to prop the door shut with my head whilst trying to aim my pee.  My handbag was swinging from around my neck in order to keep it from dipping into whatever my shoes were swimming in; I suspected more than one lady had mis-aimed...urgh.  Aware that people were standing outside my cubicle, my usual stagefright kicked in.  Weird I know but I simply cannot pee if people can hear.  Soon enough though, the sound of vomiting could be heard from nextdoor and sobbing from my other neighbour so I was not stuck for long.  

Hubby and I stuck it out past 1am just to make a point, then surrendered ourselves to a kebab and taxi.  Back at home, I let my Hubby massage my blistered feet.  I was aware of the grin he was wearing, so I breathed on him; he reeled and then left me alone.  The room was spinning.  I tried counting the contents of my purse several times before I realised that it was empty.  Poor and poorly me.

So, is the night before ever worth the hangover?  Rarely in my case.  Don't get me wrong, I almost always have a good time but there is just something that I need to wrap my melon around.  What constitutes a rockin night out 10 years ago ain't working for me nowadays.  Or maybe I just need to avoid the sugary neon stuff?

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