, with the strong suspicion that I'd made a total hash of said 8am interview, and a growing conviction that what felt like a hangover might actually be Covid, which I was about to take on a plane and then home to my family. Sweaty, anxious and panicky, I was in a doom spiral of self-flagellation and questioning my choices. And why I had a chronic inability to call it a night. And whether I would ever see the brand new MacBook Air I had left in the cab again. And mostly whether everyone hated me as much as I hated myself.'That's the hangxiety talking – you'll be fine,' my friend texted wisely, before adding, possibly not quite so wisely, 'Have a little beer at the airport.' (I did anyway.)Hangxiety – also known as 'the beer fear' or 'the booze blues' – has, in recent years, become a part of the everyday lexicon of my friends and I. So badly do some of my gang suffer now that, unable to cope with the soul-crushing existential angst that frequently follows a nice pinot, they've slapped a total booze ban on themselves.I've always been a proudly robust drinker though – I wasn't){kind=link}
As my Uber sped along the Westway, every bump and jolt brought a fresh threat that I might finally incur that hefty and humiliating cleaning fine. The open window blasting a faceful of freezing air was helping quell the seated seasickness a little as I huddled under my coat-as-blanket, but it was still looking doubtful whether I could make it as far as Heathrow without having to pull over.
The day had not started auspiciously. After managing – by some miracle, or possibly still being drunk – to stagger to an 8am appointment, I had dashed home, passed an undignified hour simultaneously packing and puking, and was now finally en route to the airport, berating myself for the 3am finish the night before (well, I
© Times Newspapers Limited 2022.
Registered in England No. 894646. Registered office: 1 London Bridge Street, SE1 9GF.