21 going on 60

It's official. I am a thirty-something trapped in a 21 year old's body. Not only am I now completely incapable of dealing with hangovers, I find myself more excited by the prospect staying in with a glass of Rose and Sex and the City than I do by the idea of a night out.

I didn't really realise the extent of my downfall, until a recent car journey with my MD when mid-convo he said "You're very....mature for 21 aren't you?". When I enquired as to what inspired this insight, he noted that all the other 'young people' in the company spend their leisure time partying in central London, or in one case Ibiza...whereas I had just described to him my thrilling weekend which consisted of one early night, minus-one X-Factor finalist, five chapters of Pride and Prej...and a two hour dog walk with my Mother. I think it's safe to say I am not living it up.

But the real problem is, I don't even care. Having sucessfully destroyed most of my internal organs at university, I am looking forward to spending the next few years relatively sober. Call me crazy, but I actually find the idea of spot-free skin, a fully functioning liver and stain-free clothes incredibly appealing. In fact, I would happily go tee-total if it weren't for a) The stigma attached to it and b) My love of Rose wine.

And the hangovers. Oh the hangovers! How I made it to 9am lectures after consuming an obscene mix of spirits and wine the night before, I don't know. Nowadays, all it takes is two small glasses on a Tuesday night and I will need a good half an hour to write and email the next morning. It wouldn't be so bad if it was just the queasiness, but its when the 2pm heart palpitations and dizziness kick in that I really suffer. You know the feeling. When you swivel your chair to talk to the person next to you and it takes a good few seconds to adjust your vision and suppress the need to vomit, before realising that you've spun too far and are actually facing the wall.

And the other pain about going out is the having to get ready part. I just dont have the energy to spend an hour in front of the mirror every Friday plucking, blending, and dousing my torso in a 'fake tan' which has both the look and consistency of crude oil. And then there's the aftermath of a night out to do battle with: stained clothes strewn about your room, sticky vodka rings on your surfaces, and that unique, residual smell of sweat mixed with sambuca that won't disappear for the next two days. Not to mention the photos appearing on Facebook the following morning of you air-guitaring on your knees in the middle of a grubby dancefloor with your skirt around your ribs...

See my point? A pair of PJs and a chick flick doesn't sound so bad now, does it?