I HAVE just discovered I am the last remaining long-term employee in the Riv’s editorial department.
My colleague and nemesis Trent Horneman has just made the move to radio after about nine combined years at the paper.
Which leaves me.
Eleven years and counting.
I guess it’s not a bad thing. I love my job — most of the time.
I’ve seen a lot of staff walk through the doors over the years and I’ve bid many a sad farewell while also happily waving and (pushing) others out the door.
So to farewell the big man, we went out for drinks after work — a tradition that has sadly diminished over the years because, well because people just can’t party like moi.
And party I must have because I woke the next morning with no voice.
A development for which many people would have rejoiced.
Anyhoo, a group of us hit my favourite haunt and started celebrating (I mean commiserating) Trent’s departure.
Now, I love a celebration and a party without having to wake up to children bouncing off the walls asking me for stove-made porridge at seven in the a.m.
The opportunity is increasingly rarer these days so when I know it’s happening I tend to get a little over-excited.
And when I get excited, I do things at double-speed. Talking, walking and, yes, drinking.
So as everyone toasted with their first drink, I was already onto my second.
And while I may have accidentally mistaken the drink a colleague had just purchased his wife as one for me, I certainly made up for it.
Another workmate, 16 years’ my junior (God, how can anyone you work with have not been born before I finished school?) told me maybe I should ease up on the G&Ts to which I replied ‘‘thank you for your concern but I can handle it’’.
In the hours that followed, there was lots of merry making and some hilarious stories at the expense of our former co-worker, including the time I beat him in a fight.
I think it was around this time Trent started shouting us all shots and although I do not condone binge drinking, I did not want to be rude.
Three shots later and things became a little hazy.
I do remember some unusual dancing breaking out, a bizarre conversation in the bathroom, some ‘I owe you’s’ written on napkins and gorging on a cheeseburger in the early hours of the morning.
And there was talk of me being some kind of prophet after a thought-provoking philosophical rant.
As for my sore throat, I do remember yelling over the music to make myself heard.
Unfortunately, I think everyone in the establishment heard me too.
Something good did come from it though.
My sexy husky voice came in quite handy — but that’s a story for another day.
Or probably maybe not.