Die of Mortification - Fun Thing # 34

It's a Saturday night, you've gone out for a few quiet whiskies... which have become slightly more raucous cocktails and even, (I shudder as I write this) a verbose cherry flavoured alcopop. You've met a man who has stolen a nickname from vintage Grange Hill, put up with a matchmaking barman, and uttered in , ahem, the meekest of tones, a desperate plea much akin to Abba's 'gimme, gimme, gimme' but slightly more explicit, which results in two very old men sitting in your kitchen drinking your single malt whisky. Bottomless old men with a huge capacity for quaffing. Be careful what you wish for.

Once you've gotten rid of them (when the bottles have been sucked dry) all that's left to do is register that it's 4am, you're wide awake, pretty waxed, and (the killer and crucial 'and') it is about time you sent a text. A drunken text.

The next day you die, die, die, die as you remember (quick delete it from your sent messages, so you never have to read the terrible words ever again)... exactly what you said. And to whom. Die. Turn your phone off. Die. Die. Die - the combined weight of chagrin, mortification and horror crushes your fragile soul.

It's a good job I self deprecate so well - but it is a result of all the practise. My sageous flatmate wisely said that no one is perfect all the time, but I would settle for averaging 10% - rather than the 3% I'm currently on.

I'd just like to add.... sometimes a drunken text gets you everywhere. Ahhhhhhh.