Alcohol is bad stuff. Why do I insist on indulging? It's so seductive and full of promises to still respect me in the morning, but I inevitably wake up feeling used and dirty. And not in a good way.

Well yesterday was just such a morning. I woke up with a start when my alarm thoughtlessly trilled and I remembered with growing regret exactly what I'd insisted on doing to myself the night before. It's a depressing moment when you realise just how falsely confident you are in your ability to process alcohol. After all, university wasn't that long ago – I can still go out and drink a mixture of lager, cider, white wine and gin and tonic and not get completely plastered, right? Er …. no.

It wouldn't have been so bad, but not only did I have a job interview at a magazine yesterday, but as soon as I got out of bed and lurched almost into my wardrobe, I realised I was actually still drunk, and had about six hours in which to sober up for this interview. A bacon sandwich and a litre-and-a-half of water later, feelings of humanity were starting to return, which was handy because I had homework for this interview that I still hadn't done. Who says I don't take an aggressively professional and proactive approach to my career? Still, I bashed it out and although it was in no way my best work, it was the most my brain was prepared to give me.

I wasn't exactly on particularly sparkling form at the interview either. I made sure to look as awake, attentive and smiley as I could but I'm sure I strayed occasionally into manic staring. It helped that the woman interviewing me was really, genuinely nice. It was one of those interviews where you get the feeling they're taking on board the stuff they like about you, and not discounting you as soon as you open your mouth. We had a brief chat, she gave me a test to do and – bizarrely enough – she seemed pleased with the total dross masquerading as homework that I'd trotted out.

But as well as it seemed to go, I left with my usual sinking feeling. I had the impression I hadn't exactly gone in there and given my best performance. And I was annoyed at myself. After all, it's not like I have interviews coming out of my ears, and I'd just managed to attend one where it would have been at least a good idea to have arrived bright-eyed, bushy tailed and not let the word "er…." monopolise my vocabulary quite so much. Basically I completely phoned it in, and wandered back to the tube station along the river thinking "Nice job, genius."

But there's just one thing.

I. Got. The. Job.

(pause as the whole of Streatham High Road becomes a perfectly choreographed Technicolor musical number from a 1950's Hollywood musical, and at the centre of it is Jennie doing a blissfully happy victory dance)

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got some cartwheels to do.