Last Night

One of the best things about being slightly worse for wear on a Sunday morning is the shocks of flashbacks that suddenly flick across your retina of what you got up to last night. Throughout the course of the day the conversations, the food, the (too many) drinks and the way you danced (and who you danced with) come back in waves to piece together the story of drunken good times. After my big academic week it was definitely time to blow off some steam.

I went out accompanied by my flatties, they aren’t actually my flatmates anymore but we were for so long each others’ ones and onlys that it’s a good noun for the pack. In a short debrief: one got two cheeky pashes despite swearing off boys, one stayed out til just before I left their house in the morning, one told off a taxi driver for patronising her and I hardly saw the other, but there was a trail of shoes leading to her room, so I assume she got home. We were at a rugby club fundraiser so there were many boys and many drinks, many familiar faces (some of whom I hope don’t remember me dancing on the stage).

I swear I encountered what has to be Matt Corby’s cousin (for the good of your femininity, google him, please) and I remember trying really hard not to say that to him, as I don’t think being a lesser hot version of someone is complimentary. This guy from one of my tutes, who I have never spoken to before kept yarning to me, and I remember insisting that it is going to be so awkward come Thursday – it is going to be so awkward come Thursday.

At various points during the day I have laughed and cringed. My headache’s fading but the memories are coming back and, as with every post-night out analysis, I don’t know whether to be impressed with myself or just embarassed.

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