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Well, on the bright side, we now know exactly how much shit Ariadne was going to get yesterday. The amount above.
By no means my best drinking story, most of which involve other people's naughty parts and as such are really not for public consumption.
However, Christmas party some years ago - and before you say owt, Bitchiekittie, yes I *did* have a reasonably severe drinking problem at the time, thankfully kept out of the bounds of lethality by a combination of poverty and decorum, which I quite freely own up to and cetainly wouldn't recommend. Very cool Canadian friends had hired a room and a majordomo, and there was carolling and party games and readings from "A Christmas Carol" and a quite. Startling. Amount. Of. Booze. Most of which ended up down my neck.
It's all a bit fragmentary, I must confess. I remember snogging one of the Canadian's ex-girlfriends. I remember attempting to pick up a load of broken glass. My next memory is waking up at 2pm the next day, four hours late for my meeting with the college president, still in evening dress, with a splitting headache and *covered* in red wine and red wine vomit. Cracking the door a little, I see that the hall is at least pristine, and quickly strip, throw on a dressing gown and tiptoed to the bathroom. On the way I encountered a flatmate, who destroyed my one shred of "at least I didn't disgrace myself" pride by saying with a mirthless smile "ah, hello Tann. We've been up all night. Cleaning up your puke."
Nice. Flustering apologies as best I could, I splashed water on my droopy-resemblin' face, dressed and ran to college (this is what I mean ablout not being too affected by hangovers), where I rescheduled my presidential meeting, went in, shakey hands, ran hand through hair and...it stuck. Not good.
As a humorous postscript, I was thrown out of that flat a fortnight or so later, as a result of my behaviour that evening, which the flatmates refused to discuss. Some years later, chatting to a mutual acquaintance, I got a partial account of what went down, which involved being carried home (a mile and a half..the joy of weightlifter friends), stagggering in, walking into the wrong bedroom, disturbing flatmate and boyfriend, demanding to know what they were doing in my room and then devoting the rest of the night to a projectile vomit-laced peroration on way a) life in general and b) my life in particular was a black charnel.
So, you know, that was pretty poor. |
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