Party In Landsdowne Road

Bedecked with two bottles of your cheapest wine, I headed to a friend's birthday party in a cosy apartment near Landsdowne road. My arrival was greeted with a warm hug and some cold instruction. Shoes off. No, over there.

It was then I felt a smack of guilt. I was giftless and somewhat under dressed. The others had brought Champagne or had cooked sticky Risotto. There were plates of donated sausages, unwrapped birthday paper and gooey chocolate cakes with unlit candles. Most of the people there were beautiful, foreign woman who all seemed to know each other and who babbled knowingly to one another. In fact, the only people nobody seemed to know was me. I tried to swallow my startled nerves and entered into the fray.

Boozy dancing, singing, high fiving, straight facing vodka, repeating conversations, discussing fictional lifestyles and talking shizzle, I ended the evening with a three step fall past furniture and soid things, into the yawning emptiness of a drunken room, and slammed backwise into a low lying table. Apparently there was much applause and laughter.

Despite my slovenly, ham fisted social conduct, I got the number of a cute French girl. It goes to show, alcohol makes you charming and sexy. I vomited the next morning.

DIARIT: 9/10