Miss W’s blog: Occupational hazards in Ibiza

Every job comes complete with a set of occupational hazards and working in Ibiza is no exception. Except that here on the white isle, your occupational hazards could sometimes be considered other people’s idea of a good time. Take last night for example…

There I was, like a good writer, attending the 20th anniversary edition of the DJ Awards at Hï Ibiza, all in the name of research (more on that later). Taking notes, listening intently to the quick-fire speeches and doing a little bit of schmoozing when all of a sudden, I realised I was quite tipsy. Now I’m well aware that many industries all around the world can count accidental midweek drinking as an occupational hazard (client dinners, awards ceremonies, special events, product launches – and imagine if you were a professional wine taster?), but how many of them place you smack bang in the middle of what is definitely one of the biggest, best and hottest nightclubs in the world right now with a line-up boasting your favourite DJ? I’d say few and far between.

This leads me to the next occupational hazard. Dancing all night long (oh the horror!). Normally when I go out clubbing, I dress appropriately. I wear my trusty flat ankle boots, ones that protect your toes on the dance floor and are so comfy you could (and have) wear them from party to after party to after-after party. But not last night. This was an awards ceremony. I had to wear my sky-high, knee-high boots, didn’t I? The ones you reserve for things like dinner, or a sit-down ceremony. I think I have a tolerance for around two hours’ worth of standing in those bad boys. And when I got dressed to go to Hï Ibiza at 9pm that evening, I figured there’d be an hour of standing around schmoozing, two hours of sitting down for the awards and then I’d be off home at a reasonable hour. But, due to the aforementioned unexpected midweek drinking, my brain was writing cheques my feet couldn’t cash. And Luciano was playing. Cue searing, intense pain shooting into the balls of my feet, my heels and even into my calves (I actually have bruises on the soles of my feet today – it’s really not funny!).

Consequently, once I realised I was in truly insufferable pain and finally made the wise decision to hail a cab and go home, my heart sank as I became aware of the next occupational hazard about to strike. I cringed at myself. I have always sworn I would never do this. I smugly look at other girls leaving nightclubs with their shoes in their hands and think, you should have dressed appropriately. If I do wear heels, I usually pack flip flops in my bag just in case this occasion should arise. But it was an awards ceremony, I was only going out for three hours, most of which would be sitting down and I was carrying a teensy tiny clutch bag that definitely could not fit another footwear option. As I slid into the backseat of the cab, I am super, super ashamed to admit, I took off my boots. And after the initial moment of sweet relief, the searing pain returned. After I paid the driver and began the agonisingly slow, sock-clad walk of shame up to my apartment in Dalt Vila, which just so happens to be un-conveniently located (today, anyway – normally I find it blissful) in a pedestrianised square so you have no choice but to walk the final five minutes. Or in my case, hop, squeak in pain and limp all the way home.

Anyway. I made it home before the sun came up, so I am grateful only a homeless man, a police squad car and the taxi driver saw me. I slid into bed – full face of make-up – forgot to set my alarm and drifted off into a lovely sleep. Which, as you can imagine, led to the next slew of occupational hazards. First, waking up to a phone that is incessantly ringing, beeping, vibrating and pinging with calls, messages, emails and notifications (work life was going on without me!). Thankfully I hadn’t missed anything, but I had definitely slept in much longer than planned. I looked at my pillows – covered in eyeliner. Classy. I looked in the mirror – let’s not even go there. If only Skype meetings could have filters. On the plus side, at least the person on the other side of the screen can’t inhale your unfortunate boozy breath. I looked in the fridge. No food. And no time to dash out to get breakfast due to the unfortunate sleeping in incident. Cue hunger pangs. It looks like this is just not going to be my day.

Halfway through my first Facetime meeting however (a little bit of Beauty Flash Balm and bronzer solved everything I needed a filter for) I very gratefully realised there was one occupational hazard that I seem to have missed. I have avoided the dreaded midweek hangover! Turns out there is some truth to the myth that if you stick to only champagne all night, you’ll feel fine the next day. Hallelujah (and thanks to Hï Ibiza for their generous hospitality!). But there was still one major hazard – that I’m sure many people all around the world also encounter during their working week – to strike me. I’m not out of the woods yet. Dude… where’s my car?

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