The Most Sarcastic Girl in the School

Going out drinking with the Most Beautiful Girl in the School has its benefits. Spending Friday night at a bar being absolutely swarmed by men is one of them. Or rather, she was swarmed by men while I entertained the ones in her queue with my good humour. Actually, I just so happened to be ovulating this weekend so I was looking pretty damn foxy myself, I have to say, in my short skirt and cowboy boots. Man; I felt like a woman.

Well, that's all I can tell you first-hand because I don't remember anything after 11 o'clock. I was told the rest the next morning, by the Most Sympathetic Girl in the School, who lovingly brought me Anadin and mopped up the splattered piles of vomit next to my bed.

I'd been in top form, apparently, firstly endearing myself to a famous Icelander; "What are you famous for again?", and then delighting a crowd of Glaswegians with my crap (and rather Welsh-sounding) "Scottish" accent. Later, when there was nobody left at the bar that I hadn't already irritated, I stalked backwards onto the dance floor, my arms spread wide, clearing a space around me as if I was about to perform some kind of spontaneous Flashdance. The crowd parted and clapped in a circle around me, holding their breath as I proceeded to, er, dance like my dad at a Christmas party, my feet shuffling together with my thumbs in the air. I tried to get the Most Sensible Girl in the School to have a go too, but she was more concerned with ensuring our coats and bags weren't getting robbed over at the bar. "There's more to life than coats and bags!" I scolded her pompously, before losing my balance and admitting (rather responsibly, I thought, seems it was only 1 o'clock) that it was time to go home to bed.

I demonstrated how to sneak off inconspicuously by diving Jack Bauer-style through the bar and rolling out onto Parliament Square, hands clasped together like a gun. Unfortunately, the swarms of men somehow noticed our exit and ran out after us, just in time to see me pulling down my knickers in a Parliamentary rose-bush and taking a very long, and very splashy, Parliamentary wee.

Oh dear. I found it rather hard to get my tights up after 17 cosmos and a bottle of Jacob's Creek. Eventually, the Most Motherly Girl in the School had to step in, helpfully tucking both my bottom and my entire skirt back into my knickers, so that I waddled around "like a deformed person". Not so foxy now, was I. "My bag!" I wailed, as I stumbled around looking for it in the bushes. "There's more to life than coats and bags!" scolded the Most Sarcastic Girl in the School, before lugging both me and my bag up the road and tucking us safely into bed.

The next day was a write-off, of course, although we did manage to make it out for a shaky early-evening walk down by the sea. Which is where I came to wonder, how come I look like a torture victim when I'm hungover, but the Most Beautiful Girl in the School gets away with this?