Prince Harry Wannabe

Just before the big 3-0 hit, I landed myself what I thought was the dream job. London. A Finance start-up. Foosball table. Banter. All the ingredients for a laugh-a-minute ride into professional semi-adulthood. The company was run by two nice-ish blokes – let’s just say they danced dangerously close to the “#MeToo, but make it cheeky” line. But they had charm, money, and a shared love for German beer, so naturally, I ignored every red flag and said yes.

Before I’d even officially started, the bosses invited me out with the “lads.” Team bonding, you know? Picture a Bavarian beer hall in the middle of London. Lederhosen energy, litre steins, very little dignity. The two founders left early, and us young guns were left to our own devices – which is never a good idea when you've got corporate cards and no oversight.

One of the team – posh, lanky, red-headed, and painfully awkward – had brought along some of his mates. Among them was a guy so dreamy he could’ve been carved by Michelangelo himself, only with better hair. The flirting was immediate. And mutual. And unfortunately, entirely complicated by the fact that Dreamboat had a girlfriend. Sigh.

Still, boundaries were... let’s say, blurred. Not crossed. Not completely. But the vibe was definitely somewhere between “this is fun” and “this is morally murky.”

The night descended into full-blown chaos. At some point, the world blurred into a glittery, slurred mess of shots, laughter, and regret.

Then… the morning.

I woke up in an unfamiliar flat, with the kind of headache that makes you question every life decision you’ve ever made. Rolled over. Saw a tuft of ginger hair.

Reader, I’d accidentally slept with the wrong guy.

Not the dreamy one. The posh, awkward, colleague-one.

I didn't even fancy him.

Cue internal screaming.

Now, before you jump to conclusions – I had no memory of the how or why. All I know is I left with my metaphorical tail firmly between my legs and a strong desire to turn back time. Not quite how I pictured kicking off a shiny new job.

But in I went. Chin up. Shame buried somewhere deep beneath layers of mascara and caffeine.

We ended up working together for a year. A whole year. And while there was no repeat performance (thank the Lord), our dynamic morphed into this weirdly antagonistic, banter-fuelled sparring match. Think Fleabag meets The Office, but with less sexual tension and more accidental bullying.

He was so impossibly British. Like, borderline parody. One time, when we were meant to entertain a new hotshot CEO from some snazzy partner company, Redhead McUmbrella offered to take us out.

“I know all the bouncers in Mayfair,” he said, puffed up like an old-school aristocrat in a Wetherspoons.

Did we get in anywhere? Absolutely not.

Three clubs. Three knockbacks. One very embarrassed team watching our self-proclaimed VIP tour guide getting turned away at every door, in his bloody Barbour jacket and a long umbrella like he was the third Hemsworth brother auditioning for Downton Abbey.

The next day, I came into the office and reenacted the whole thing. It ended with me howling with laughter in front of the entire team, mature professional that I am.

Not my finest HR moment, but it was either that or cry.

This job also coincided with what I now fondly refer to as my “losing my handbag” phase. Every night out was a game of “will I come home with my wallet, keys, dignity?” Usually, the answer was no. The awkward redhead took it upon himself to start reminding me to cancel my cards before I even left the office. “Just save time,” he said, deadpan. “Let’s be honest, you’ll lose them anyway.”

Touché, Ginger Nemesis. Touché.

Looking back, that year was part sitcom, part horror story, part therapy waiting to happen. But it taught me a few key things:

1. Always suss out who you're flirting with before you wake up in their bed.

2. Barbour jackets don’t grant you VIP access.

3. Never trust a start-up that thinks foosball is a personality.

   
   

Oh, and maybe—just maybe—don’t sleep with colleagues before your first day.

But then again, where’s the fun in that?

Craving more awkward tales of career chaos, inappropriate crushes, and nights you’d rather forget? Stay tuned. Next time: the office Christmas party and why tinsel and tequila should never mix.