Earlier in 2011, I almost forgot, the hen do for the wedding in the French chateau. Before I went, my boyfriend said "I do hope you're not expecting me to look after you when you're hungover tomorrow". I laughed. Hen do started in a fairly civilised manner, an ice skating lesson in Streatham, but then moved onto sangria and pizza at lunchtime and went steadily downhill from there on in. There were ridiculous costumes and cocktail making lessons in a bar in Balham. There was a naked butler at dinner time who was very surprised when my friend said that, yes, she was serious about booking him to do all the washing up. We ended up in a club somewhere in South London (don't know where but it had one of those dance floors with square coloured flashing lights). Around 3am I texted my boyfriend to tell him that I was having an argument with a bouncer about ownership of a sombrero. I have no memory of that, but I woke up at 8am on my friend's hard wooden lounge floor clutching a sombrero, so it appears to be an argument that I won.
We were booked for brunch at a nice place on Balham high street at 10am, so I threw up, splashed my face with water and tried to make it through the planned present-giving. The hangover was too severe though and I ended up sitting outside the café on the pavement, stripped down to a boob tube and jeans, letting the rain wash over me, because it felt better than being inside.
After brunch, I rang my boyfriend and threw myself at his mercy. I spent the next 24 hours lying in his bed in his tiny flat (it didn't even legally exist, it had been carved out of the attic of another flat, the kitchenette opened straight into the toilet/shower cubicle, the one window opened onto the roaring traffic of Archway), groaning and making various demands for water, paracetamol, pizza, tea. He was very kind and only teased me mildly about predicting this outcome.
We were booked for brunch at a nice place on Balham high street at 10am, so I threw up, splashed my face with water and tried to make it through the planned present-giving. The hangover was too severe though and I ended up sitting outside the café on the pavement, stripped down to a boob tube and jeans, letting the rain wash over me, because it felt better than being inside.
After brunch, I rang my boyfriend and threw myself at his mercy. I spent the next 24 hours lying in his bed in his tiny flat (it didn't even legally exist, it had been carved out of the attic of another flat, the kitchenette opened straight into the toilet/shower cubicle, the one window opened onto the roaring traffic of Archway), groaning and making various demands for water, paracetamol, pizza, tea. He was very kind and only teased me mildly about predicting this outcome.
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