Dishonorable mention goes to....

Me.

On Sunday morning, when I stumbled up the hallway to get a life-saving drink of water, I stopped in my tracks when I saw this: 

That's my coat, draped over the back of the couch, four helium balloons tied to a button hole. How did I get them into the back of a taxi? I remember having about twenty of them to take home, but the birthday boy pulled me out into the middle of the empty street and made me release them. Watching them float away, high into the night sky, I was devastated. So I sneaked back inside and stole some more.

The trail of destruction continued. I walked into the still-dark kitchen and tripped over my heels, which I kicked off when I got home. Two gold and one sparkly bangle rested on the bench-top, next to the crystal tumbler I used for a neat vodka, an inch of water at the bottom of the glass from the melted ice blocks.

Something on the tiled floor caught my eye. I squinted, but tried not to put my head down for a closer look (that was when the room started to spin) and saw my huge pearl and diamond glass cocktail ring beside the leg of a chair.

I went back to bed for two hours.

Later in the day, I found my keys on the floor, at the front door. Later still, I noticed a text message from my friend (who was at the party), sent at 1.19 am. She wanted to know if I got home okay and was let me know that she had gotten home and tried on her wedding dress: still fits and rocking it! She has been married for nearly five years.

I guess it was that kind of night.

I keep having flashes of memory: dancing in stockinged feet, shoes long discarded; biting a balloon and sucking in the helium; going up to the birthday boy - who I've known for all of two and a bit months - and putting my hands on his face and saying I think you're absolutely gorgeous and I love you after he gave a lovely speech; telling a girl who I work with that her legs looked awesome in her mini-dress but mine looked like that when I was twenty-two as well and ha, look at mine now, it will catch up with you eventually, you know; hey, let's have another shot; love this song! let's dance!; ooh, fuck. Lost my balance; no, I'm fine; I think I need to go home; taxi!

I have these flashbacks and I put my hands over my screwed-up face, cringing and groaning with embarrassment/mortification. Ah, alcohol. You really are the devil's milk.