I don’t want to write this. I want to lie on the office floor and rub my swollen belly to ease the sloshing of coffee, noodle soup and an ill-advised aloe vera drink. I want to use the carpet to wipe the melted chocolate off my dusty, sticky hands, and then I want to have a three-hour nap before going to the pub for beer and chips.
Admittedly, I’m never at my best after three o’clock in the afternoon, but between June and September, it’s as if the bell has gone to mark the end of the school day, but I’m the only one who has heard it. At best, my personal hygiene and time-keeping are basic, but come the summer, I make Glastonbury look like Glyndenbourne.
I look and behave as though I’ve just been thrown out of The Gathering Of The Juggalos. I’m surrounded by salad eaters swathed in dry, crisp linen, who stare down at their leather loafers to avoid my five-mile gaze. I stink of beer and Baptiste. My feet look tan, if poorly shod, in my airport flip flops, until I rub at the ‘tan’ with a spitty finger. I am a collapsed, reduced-to-clear, picnic-sized scotch egg selection, in a maxi dress.
If life was fair and people were reasonable, we’d all be able to embrace the summer slump. No-one would be expected to do any proper work until absolutely everyone was back from holiday, and offices around the country would accept that they need to either provide an on-site frappucino chef or allow every employee 40 minutes of Starbucks queuing time.
There would be no pissy emails about not wearing beach clothes at client meetings, because it would be accepted that you’re only wearing a sarong because everything else you own is covered in mud and grass stains, and they’re bloody lucky that you turned up and put underwear on.
But we’re all expected to muddle through a three-month sweaty hangover, doubling down on all our work because everyone else is in Thailand, or Provence, or Dubai, and you spunked your leave load on a poorly thought-out Groupon to Marbella back in April. It’s not fair.
But here’s how to coast through and do a reasonable impression of a human being until you’re invigorated by the season of boots and bonfires and you’re in no danger of passing out in the park with half a melted Funny Foot in your hair.
Try to focus on ‘urgent’ work matters that are contingent on someone else coming back from holiday
Out of office isn’t just an automated email response, it’s a state of mind. The OOO bounce can be as sexual and soothing as getting super-stoned and watching a Microsoft screensaver from 1995. You email the out of office contact, you get their out of office, and their out of office’s out of office – like the Beano annual I once had, where the cover was a picture of Dennis and Gnasher holding the Beano annual, which had another picture of Dennis and Gnasher stretching out to infinity.
Just put yourself in a position where the world is on a beach and nothing you do can be signed off until September. ‘I did try to give them a call, because it’s urgent, but I think they’ve turned their voicemail off!’ you can sigh, putting your phone down on the Speaking Clock. If you’re super gutsy, you can make like Ilana from *Broad City *and set up a fake out of office claiming you’re in Mexico.
Swap flip flops for Converse
For quite some time, I believed that the best thing about summer was the skanky footwear. Flip flops are cheap, they go with everything, you don’t have to think about them for longer than a nanosecond, and you can run all over town in them. Also, when they’re worn away from the beach, they make the underside of your feet look like an empty crisp packet that someone stuck in a hedge in 2008 and is just starting to disintegrate.
Some actors claim that in order to get a feel for a role, they start with the feet. If they wear the shoes that really suit their character, they can gauge the right movement, their weight and their walk. Even on the rare summer days when I was clean-haired and hangover free, flip flops made me feel like a hobo from the ankles up.
So I swapped them for Chuck Taylors and I spend 100 per cent less time worrying that everyone is looking at my disgusting black toes.
Tiny plane toiletries are also great on the bus
Travel is a true gift. I don’t care about meeting people from other cultures or broadening my mind, but I’m always looking for excuses to spend upwards of fifty quid in Boots. You don’t have to be going to another country to fill your bag with tiny deodorants and 50ml hand sanitisers. You may never be part of the jetset but you can deal with your jet sweat.
You can use them to clean yourself on your commute, and you’ll be so fresh, so clean that everyone at work will leave you alone, and no-one will suspect that just eight hours ago, you invented the Jaeger-Pimms.
**Aim to keep the ‘pink wine incidents’ to less then three a week **
If you toast yourself in the mirror while saying ‘Pinot Grigio Blush’ three times, the ghost of Britney Spears circa 2007 will float out of your throat, you will wet yourself, your shoes will disappear and you’ll suddenly start vomiting sand.
Rosé is a big, pink, chilled, irresistible bastard that will have you wailing for winter, and death, within 12 hours of the second bottle being opened. Or 11 and a half of the third bottle being opened. No-one ever has a single glass of rosé, unless they arrive just before the pub has run out.
If I drink like a Nan, sticking to clear spirits and plenty of water, I can show up, turn out and ride out a hangover with as much grace and productivity as any human might muster. If I have some pink wine, I may as well send a Post-It saying ‘SORRY!’ stuck to the brim of a straw sombrero in my place.
A nap is as good as a run
We know that exercise is ace, and all those lovely endorphins will make you feel much better than a big tank of Aperol Spritz and a sausage roll. But when you feel hot, harassed and hopeless, you don’t want to go and sweat in the park while a hundred amused tourists try to blind you with their selfie sticks. You want a little sleep.
Unless you have a very understanding boss, this is a power move that works best at weekends. Shut the door, close the curtains and dig out your old in-flight eye mask. Once you wake up, you can spend a few brief hours functioning at 100 per cent again. (DO NOT RUIN YOUR EFFORTS WITH PINK WINE.)
Follow Daisy on Twitter @NotRollergirl
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Picture: Rory DCS
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.