I emerge from a two day hibernation following the works night out. I have been trying to piece together my movements and have that awful sneaking suspicion I might have made rather a clown of myself. Mr Clairwil informs me that he was awoken at 2am to be asked questions about boxes and sex to which there was no real answer.
I remember winning a CD player, I remember being absurdly patriotic, I remember breaking a glass, I remember dancing, I remember being hit by the sudden realisation that one of my female colleagues is the most sexually desirable human being I ever ever eyed up and that is a worry. A bigger worry is what I can't remember.
I also remember singing 'James The Cat' in the close at the top of my voice and trying to flog my very respectable and horrified Indian neighbours 'my diamonds' (glass) and offering to show them my pants to prove I'm not all fur coat and no knickers. To be fair they were very understanding about the whole thing when I popped in later that day with gifts of apology.
Oh you know how it is with drink, one moment you have a table in fits as you express your amazement that the pudding you'd ordered appeared to be tinned fruit cocktail and squirty cream, the next you want to show folk your pants. For those who are interested my pants were by Spanx and very large.
I expect Amy Winehouse feels like this everyday.