Alight here for the Piccadilly line, other District Line services, or if you’re about to vomit

Hands down, one of the worst experiences ever is being hungover on the tube. No, let me re-phrase that – being hungover on the tube in rush hour. The first mistake is assuming that dragging your bruised and fragile body onto a train, while focusing on “minding the gap”, is going to be the hardest part. Oh no, it’s not until you manage to locate a pole to cling onto that the real struggle begins.

The first thing that hits you is the wall of suffocating heat, inevitably followed by the heart-wrenching realisation that you don’t have any water. And of course at that exact second, about six people around you retrieve hefty bottles of Evian from their bags. It takes every ounce of willpower to drag your gaze away from the taunt of the thirst-quenching goodness, but you eventually manage it by forcing your eyes closed. Mistake number two.

The second your lids close, the potential for just how sick you could be in the next two minutes is suddenly realised. Stomach lurches, heart pace quickens, and perspiration appears on your already glistening brow. Then your eyes start darting around the cabin like someone on E – frantically trying to decide where exactly you could vomit that will cause the least mortification to yourself and the unsuspecting souls around you; Scrunched up newspapers, empty Dr Pepper bottles, coat hoods, handbags, open umbrellas, even someone’s trainer sticking out of a gym bag - but none of them seem up to the task. Then you catch a glimpse of someone comfortably dozing off in one of the few seats available and quite seriously consider directing it their way.

By this time, the nausea begins to ease, returning you to your former state of frailness and self-pity. Until you make mistake number three – glancing up at the advertising billboards - when images of Vodka, an M&S roast dinner and various fungal infections fill your eyes and you go through the whole traumatic ordeal once again. Of course there is one solace to be found in such a situation; when you meet the gaze of someone clinging to an opposite pole, exchange that unique, pained look that says “I want cry” and feel comfort in the knowledge that you’re not alone.

Proof of delivery

I was tasked yesterday with organising a courier to pick up a small package from Central London at 4pm and bring it directly back to our offices in Putney. Now, without sounding self-righteous I don’t think this was a particularly difficult errand, especially for a company who’ve built their business on such an exercise.

But low, 5.15pm arrived and no package, so I gave them a quick call to check how they were getting on. “He hasn’t picked it up yet I’m afraid” was the answer I received. Fine, I thought, stay calm – I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. “Oh, why not?” I asked sweetly. “Well it’s manic out there at the moment” yawned the girl at the end of the phone, at which point my blood began to boil, given that 4pm is not known for being peak rush hour, even in Central London.

I remained silent and prayed for her sake that she’d go on to tell me there’d been some sort of mini tornado terrorising the capital. “It’s the postal strike you see, every courier in London’s out on the road”. I was stunned. How many couriers could there possibly be in London to cause this much of a delay? And on motorbike!? I was suddenly picturing scenes of chaos in Oxford Circus - thousands of men on bikes wearing branded crash helmets, desperately trying to navigate a sea of transit vans while clasping a fold-out street map in one hand, a mobile phone in the other, and shouting the name of every road they came across in sheer blind panic.

“I can see him on my monitor” she said, snapping me out of my daydream, “He’s still about 25 minutes away.” After what seemed like 100 phone calls with updates on his ETA, I resigned myself to the fact that the attempt was fruitless and swiftly negotiated that they pick it up at 9am on Monday free of charge – mainly because the office would likely be closed by the time he arrived, but also because I’d have to hang around for him to deliver it back and I had an important date with my duvet and an X Factor re-run which I simply couldn’t miss.

Gemma Hamill is still at work

Is it just me or is there something a little bit exciting and almost rebellious about being at work after hours? It’s dark outside, you’re ordering pizza, you can sit on Facebook for as long as you want – hell, something WILD is about to happen up in here!

This discussion arose two nights ago when my colleague mentioned that her favourite time to be at work is the evening. Admittedly I was a little taken aback at first, but after examining the facts the evidence was irrefutable - you can work at a human pace, without meeting alerts and emails from tetchy clients popping up every 5 minutes, it’s the only time you can crack open a bottle of wine and nobody bats an eyelid, the people staying with you are the people you actually like being around and you don’t have to worry about the walk home once you’ve ordered a cab and claimed on expenses. Not a bad deal at all.

And probably the best part about it is that you get to update your Facebook status with things like “Gemma Hamill is still at work” or “Gemma Hamill is over it” – outwardly bitching to your peers and getting sympathy in return, while inwardly thinking “Gemma Hamill is still at work, a little bit drunk and getting nowhere, but doesn’t have anything better to do and is actually quite enjoying it!”

Although I suspect this feeling probably wears off at around midnight, when you realise that not only should you be in bed by now, but that it will be at least another hour until you actually are, and another 6 hours until you have to get up and do it all over again. Luckily, I have yet to experience that particular level of delirium, but surely at this point the only solution is a healthy dose of Lionel Ritchie?

No? Anyone?