Rehab


I have requested that my flat mates stage an intervention. My alter ego spiralled out of control so badly on saturday that I have instructed my housemates to keep me off the sauce for at least a week.
It all began when Fomo (fear of missing out) consumed me last week and I found myself going out not once not twice but four times! That is more times than I went out in the whole of freshers week…I am deeply ashamed, long I have teased those friends who frequent fabric so much you would think them addicted to nightclubbing…this week I was one of them.
It began on wednesday when a bout of torrential rain found me seeking shelter in a dive in Soho. It transpired that it was also the watering hole of every hen night in London and I met a female Wayne Rooney and a banana in the bathroom.
On Thursday I was tricked by a wiley club promoter…I followed the free champagne and ended up in a club with a mirrored ceiling so low I could see down my top, and where the walls were lined with teenagers being fingered on the dance floor.
Friday was the day I looked forward to the least, I was due to attend a drinks party to accompany a friend while she faced her ‘evil’ ex boyfriend. He was wearing a gilet and pointy shoes…nuff said. Upon leaving said party my alter ego, 'wicked’ is her name emerged and amid screams of 'the party never dies’ I fled to vauxhall. Gurning gay men rounded up the end of the night…and it was all going swimmingly until one silly friend got a little greedy and passed out on my arm. The remainder of the evening was spent standing outside in the cold in kennington while said friend remembered who she was…and then remembered the code for her door. The wrong side of Lambeth was not where I had envisioned finding myself, having begun the evening talking a bunch of chins in Notting Hill…
And Saturday was the straw that broke the camel’s back…wicked reached his peak and I found myself venturing out to my friend’s house party (where I knew no one) in an outfit that at the beginning of the night made me look like a kerb crawler and at the end…a porpoise trapped in a net. The Tube back the next day in morning’s harsh light has encouraged me to bin said leotard and to steer clear of outfits that make me look like a young Bet Lynch.
And so, I am now in nightclubbing rehabilitation, wicked has been put back in his cage until a later date. watch this space…