I used to party. I mean properly party for days in a row with no stopping. I am a hot mess and quite happy to be so because it provides entertainment for myself and others. This is the story of My First Vegas Trip. This is a long one so fluff up those pillows and dim your phone screen a little bit so your head doesn’t hurt and you don’t go cross eyed.

We were at the tail end of a string of parties and we were also rather obsessed with the Disney film Frozen. Remember this as it has a strong relevance to my story. Halloween had just passed (messy) and a few nights later a huge lot of us spent the night in a karaoke bar (messier). We were all gearing up, training ourselves for Vegas. To give you an idea of how trashed I was I’ll just paint a picture using my words: I sang Iggy Azalea’s I’m so fancy with a friend and at some point forgot the words and the fact I was on stage and just stood there. Yes, I know the words are literally on a screen in front of me but you couldn’t tell me that then. My friend P took this opportunity to steal the show and thrust his hand into my shoulder while simultaneously sashaying in front of me and twerk/whipping his hair back and forth. Which I deserved and probably would have done if he’d stood on stage gormless AF swaying and dribbling slightly.

Somehow my liver kept its wits about it and two days later at 4am we were playing luggage Tetris with the car and getting excited. 2 guys 3 girls 3 nights — about 8 huge suitcases and 2 little ones for shoes.

A few rests later, (quick PSA if you are a dude don’t try and buy dress shoes from Walmart on the way up to Vegas. They will be clumpy and about a size too big. They will also result in the kind of laughter that makes you double over — I think about those shoes often) a quick stop at Chipotle (also relevant to this story, as you will see) and we pulled into the city of Sin. I sat bolt upright, little hands against the glass, not wanting to miss a moment. From the moment I entered Vegas I was completely enthralled and wanted to come back even though I hadn’t left. Those lights are something else.

Eyelashes, hairspray, dresses, heels, shirts, drinks, phones and towels were all flung around the room the minute we got our eager little paws on the room key. Half an hour later, we all looked FUCKING amazing but if you saw the state of the room after all that you’d understand why. We put in work.

Feeling our oats and nicely liquored up we headed to Hakkasan to meet up with the rest of our friends who were also in Vegas. I couldn’t even tell you who was playing — I made a bee line for the bar and bought a red bull & vodka. I nearly fell off my 5 inch platform pumps when I got the bill ($25) but this was Vegas and you were supposed to leave broke, hungover and full of shame. I greedily chugged it down and bought another one.

Obviously the night progressed and we danced and jumped and screamed and fell over. Well, I fell over and brought a friend with me. Our friends helped us back up where we promptly and stubbornly removed our heels, deaf to the protestations of our friends. I have no idea how but a bouncer saw our bare feet through the shoulder to shoulder crowd and appeared at our elbows, sternly ordering us to put them back on. He stood there with his hands on his hips glaring at us like a strict school marm while we forced our poor sore feet back into them, leaning on any handy arm that happened to be nearby. That guy had the laser x-ray eyes . Very soon after this (I think) we were ready to move on, and I was given a piggy back ride out of the club so my poor little feetsies could have a rest. (Thank you J. And thank you for putting me down just so we could get past the bouncer and for picking me straight back up after we were out of his eyesight) I was carried out of Hakkasan like the princess I thought I was that night, swinging my shoes and kicking my feet. In reality I was every drunk girl that’s ever been in Vegas. Ever.

We headed back to our hotel room and did not feel like bed at all. We sloppily made some drinks to go and managed to get some more appropriate walking shoes on without smacking our heads onto anything despite our wobbliness and off we set.

Cast your mind back to the first paragraph, if you remember I mentioned Frozen. Now I don’t know if it was the pure oxygen that had been pumped into my lungs courtesy of every hotel in Vegas or what but I was filled with such euphoria. Too much. It was brimming over and just burst out of me in the form of a song.

To the tune of “Do you want to build a snowman” I sang these words:

“I love Vegas. I want to be a stripper and stay here forever”

Whilst running across a bridge. Luckily for me someone filmed me doing this or I would not have been party to this amazing moment. I don’t remember doing it but it’s probably one of my most favorite things I’ve ever done. When I die I want a plaque placed on that bridge bearing the statement “For Sara, who sang about strippers and was very drunk the whole time she was here. Vegas loves you.”

The same friend who took the video went to Vegas recently and took the picture above on that same bridge. It makes my heart happy every time I look at it.

I would like to say the night ended on that high note but I had considerably more embarrassing moments to spread around like jam on toast. We met two guys who had the penthouse suite at Ceaser’s Palace and three of us (our friend C had flown in to meet us) went back to their room (including one man, we may have been drunk but we weren’t that silly. We are streetwise young women who look after ourselves. Actually, that’s a fucking lie we totes would have gone anyway). I don’t remember a lot at this point but apparently I stomped around the penthouse mouthing off to one of the guys I was irritated by, demanded booze from the other one before passing out face first on one of the many couches. I am nothing if not classy and a lady at all times.

I woke up with a start to sunlight streaming directly into my bleary eyes and we gathered our things and trudged back to our hotel room. Let me tell you — Vegas in daylight when you are hungover is horrible and amazing all at once. It’s teeming with brash, loud tourists in comedy t-shirts and their children, quite a difference from the glamour of the night before. We walk-of-shame-stumbled our way, clutching our heads and slowly searching for phones, wallets and room keys with great difficulty. Once safely in our room I immediately walked over to the crate of Smirnoff Ice we had picked up at Walmart and cracked one open, passing another to my friend C. Start as you mean to go on after all.

We waited for the missing three who were compeltely MIA and drank and waited and drank some more. And just when we were losing our patience in burst K closely flanked by the other two. They were all smaaaashed. K leaped on the bed brandishing one of those giant drinks in the shape of the Eiffel Tower and jumped up and down screaming until about her third jump when, in her drunkenness, she accidentally landed at an angle. With a loud clunk she launched into the wall with her head and took out the lamp and the phone with her flailing feet. The flimsy giant plastic drink crumpled into the wall and piná colada slushie sprayed over everything in sight. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much at anything. Even now thinking of it makes me laugh out loud. The lamp was fucked but we put it back where it used to be, balancing it so it looked like it wasn’t broken, packed up our stuff and moved to a different room, leaving behind the most impressive mess and slush galore. It looked like the aftermath of a bad porno filming.

Speaking of slushie — we adopted quite a few odd eating habits on our trip. Remember I mentioned we stopped at Chipotle? Well I ordered a burrito from there on our way into Vegas that I didn’t eat much of but kept. Being the poor desperate girls we were I knew to hold on to that burrito because it would be useful. And oh boy, was it ever useful. Me and the other girls would gather secretly around it when the others weren’t looking for a quick nibble. On the third day V caught us all clustered around it bobbing our heads like pigeons, taking it in turns to take tiny bites from it. He shook his head and started chuckling to himself before gently prising the frankly disgusting burrito out of our clammy hands and threw it in the bin. What? Don’t judge us. That burrito lasted like a champ — it even managed to move rooms with us before it was thrown away. Our last night things were a reeeeaaaal stretch, three of us found a del taco and I think managed to scrape together enough coins to buy three tacos each and a drink to share. Actually I don’t even think I had coins to contribute to our cause. I had to rely on the kindness of friendship for that meal. Our last night was grim with the booze too — we saved a minimal amount of Dr Pepper we bought at del taco and took it back, cup and all so we could add the only booze we had left to it: Fireball. We were all sick of it after twenty too many shots but beggars really can’t be choosers. The next Vegas trip I will be bringing more money with me and I will eat more but although I sound cheesy AF and it will be amazing I don’t think it will ever be QUITE as much fun or as funny. There’s something about being in your twenties, being broke and being with your friends when you do something like a Vegas trip.

We passed the rest of the trip much in the same vein, smashing our heads into walls and singing. There’s a few more stories in there somewhere but I’ll save them for next time. A few disco naps and titty bumps later and it was time to drive home. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sad to leave a place. I’d had an amazing time, put my body through hell and hadn’t thrown up once. Although, wait. Maybe I did throw up. Yeah actually scratch that I threw up. At least twice.

My mother. Those of you who have met my mother know that she is by and large a wonderful human being and those of you who haven’t please visit Exhibit A above: her super awkward 80's tree photo should clear the matter of her awesomeness up. She is a baby angel 78% of the time with the temperament of a saint. Obviously, nobody is perfect and my mother does have a slight unhealthy attachment to her things, namely her shoes. I love shoes, especially sneakers/trainers but my mother has taken it to the absolute extreme. She has lots of shoes sequestered away in our 4 bedroom house (with attic) and as it has only been her living in this house she had lots of rooms to put them in and then promptly forget about them. They have accumulated over the years and here is her trick, she keeps them neatly in different places so you are never sure how many there are or where to find them all. This trick was so effective as to have worked on her own self and she now had no idea how many pairs of she had. I made an executive decision that some of The Things must go. The Things had reached their timely demise and I was the staid executioner so, starting with her shoes, they would all have to go.

I sat her down on our stairs and opened a wicker box in the hall- packed to the brim with shoes and started throwing them unceremoniously into a black plastic bag. She objected to every dusty article I pulled out and insisted on clasping them to her chest crying out that they were her absolute favourites and hastily trying them on to show me how fantastic they were. A tirade of excuses followed: these were “summer shoes” (they weren’t) and she wears them all the time (she doesn’t) all of them are ESSENTIAL because of varying weather conditions (they aren’t).

30 pairs later, she looked reproachfully at me while I strictly instructed that this was necessary and no one needed this many shoes. I ventured into the bedrooms and collected even more shoes she had lined neatly up along the upstairs hallway and laid them in front of her. We struck a bargain. I would allow her to pick a total of 20 pairs to be kept and no more. She agreed rather hastily and we chose them together after some minor dithering and more trying on.

Now, I know my mother. She doesn’t agree to anything quickly or without a struggle. She is stubborn and always thinks she’s right (like me) but I made the mistake of believing I had gotten through. I had made her see that the sheer amount of shoes was unnecessary – I felt proud. We had broken through a barrier together and I was smugly satisfied. I carried the 20 pairs of shoes upstairs and was trying to figure out where to put them and I thought – I know under the bed in the spare room all lined up until we can get her a shoe closet. I might even get her one as a present for doing so well, I thought naively to myself. I got down on all fours happy in the knowledge that progress had been made and prepared to put them neatly underneath the spare bed when I clapped my eyes on them. The Shoe Boxes. Gleaming in the darkness like the eyes of a vicious spider waiting for the opportunity to strike its next victim. I started pulling them out one by one, counting and muttering under my breath. I had been betrayed! She had agreed to throw more shoes away safe in the knowledge that she had an emergency treasure trove of hidden gems hiding upstairs that I would never find.

Too late I heard her shouting for me to wait and when she burst into the spare bedroom she found me surrounded by 30, toppling and multi coloured shoe boxes – hair sticking out all over the place and wild frustration in my eye “Right!” I said “RIGHT!” And I started carrying the boxes in to her bedroom and slam-stacked them up against her wall, deaf to her protestations. She had LIED and now she would suffer. She could keep the shoes but they must remain in her room where she would have to look at them everyday. Bitterly unhappy, she implored me to let her keep some in the spare bedroom. Betrayal had permanently hardened my resolve and a month later they are still there, in her room. Guarded resolutely, like a mother dragon with her eggs. But I can wait as long as it takes. I shall wait with a bin bag firmly in hand until the moment pairs start being forgotten outside her fiery den and then I shall toss them, laughing maniacally, until only 20 remains. Goddamn fucking shoe boxes.

Black Mirror is a series on Netflix that is all about the future and our inevitably doomed relationship with a militantly controlled future and technology. Individual freedom is not a general theme that runs through these fantastic but grim mini-films. I recently decided I was going to take a 30 day break from social media (not including this blog, deh) and stumbled on an episode so relevant it can’t have just been coincidence.

Nosedive is set in a bright pastel rainbow world where everyone is Stepford Wives nice, has tech-lenses and what looks suspiciously like the iphone 13 that together constantly post and rate everything and everyone out of 5, frankly, not too different from our current social media frenzy. However, woe betide you should your rating fall below a certain number in that world! You are a social leper who doesn’t deserve eye contact or smiles! You are gum on the bottom of shoes and shall be shunned and ignored! You are a maggot who shall be thrown out of sight, far away from the clean and orderly decent folk lest they become infected with your bad ratings!

Lacie is obsessed with bettering her mid-range ratings and popularity to match her very beautiful, blonde, thin, rich, fun loving and popular school friend Naomi (see above — Girl 1. hint: she’s not as nice as she looks). Lacie’s actions and general demeanor come across as disingenuous but I couldn’t help but feel an affinity with her. She quite honestly just wants people to like her and that simple desire is at the root of all her desperate behavior. Although I am definitely way less inclined to fake behavior, mainly because I am a little ball of uncontrollable emotion and hyperactivity, I did understand her dismay at not living up to her peers. I also hold far too much sway by Facebook and Instagram likes as well. It can quite literally make me feel like a doe eyed Disney princess leaping down a country lane, arms spread wide in the sunshine singing at the top of my lungs to all who gaze upon me with admiration or like a malformed, slimy gremlin who resides under a bridge, alone and awash with shame any time it catches a reflection of it’s pot belly jutting out over it’s jeans. I am one of those unfortunate souls who believes if people aren’t liking your pictures and posts it is directly indicative of how liked you are. I am aware of how ridiculous this is — there are all sorts of reasons that pictures don’t get liked, mainly people are too busy worrying about themselves — but I can’t help it. It shouldn’t upset me so much so why do I feel ugly and fat because of a lack of likes? Why do I care so much about validation? In short — probably because that’s right where society wants me — constantly striving for out of reach Insta-perfection. Let’s be honest though, if the two girls posted these pictures on their own feed and there was no sad backstory just pictures of what their weekends had been like, Lacie (see below — Girl 2) looks like she had more fun.

“Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring”- Marilyn Monroe

This story is how I got one of those hangovers.

It was someone’s birthday and a huge crowd of servers accumulated from one restaurant and friends of friends to storm The Castro. The night got under way and as is expected we exerted ourselves on three separate dance floors, falling over each other and making lude sexual gestures. My stomach hurt from laughing but I had a small sadness underneath it all. There was some guy I had unreciprocated feelings for who was present and despite having the time of my life, it was tarnishing what should have been a perfectly messy and uncomplicated night.

A small group of us deposited ourselves onto the pavement, glistening and panting to spark up a well-earned cigarette. Being my closest of friends, they knew that I was a little bit bummed out and the idea for us to move on to a different place sans the huge crowd came about and we set off to a cocktail bar.

We were all beyond drunk and more drinks was probably not the best idea but the wonderful thing about being in your twenties is you can do all of your not-the-best ideas and they usually turn out rather entertaining results. Somehow, two of my other very close friends who had not been present at the birthday party were at the next bar, ready and willing to cheer me up and take my mind off of any feels that were creeping in due to excessive alcohol consumption. Somebody put a delicious cocktail in front of me. And then another two?

Closing time rolled around and we departed to The Loft: the epitome of cool, urban living, all sleek chrome and sliding glass owned by one of my friends (fam, really) and located in The Soma. Prime party spot and BIG PLUS for an English girl: you could smoke inside. We kept giggling and shrieking and having the time of our lives and just as the thought of bed was nudging gently into my brain: Someone called. A Renegade was brewing and our presence was required toute suit, onesies strongly recommended. We dived into The Loft’s extensive dress up wardrobe and came out dripping in fleecey fur and, to my delight, a couple of super hero onesies.

Clad in a Superman onesie with attached red cape and feeling invincible, I was hands-on-hip ready to go Renegading.

We pulled into a small parking area that dropped into a cliff. We could hear the faint sounds of the party, reaching us from the beach below. Common sense at first dictated that we try and find a path down into the woods and after drunkenly marching back and forth, swigging from our stash of booze, that sensible thought quickly went out the window and we decided the only way down was down the cliff. In the pitch dark. Filled with the false sense of confidence that comes from heavy booze drinking and wearing super-hero onesies, we set off to try and find the least steep part of the cliff. We descended slowly and haltingly trying to safely juggle dogs, booze, blankets and phone flashlights. Our journey was more us sliding over sharp rocks than a climb but no matter. Around about my third scrape, I remember thinking that this may have been a bad idea but we had come to far. Down was our only option and our only saving grace was the occasional outcrop we could stop ourselves on. Feeling more and more like a genuine superhero because we were almost successfully navigating a cliff whilst drunk, we carried on until, one by one, we reached a 90 degree angled drop surrounded by sharp rocks on either side. The only option was to try and do a sort of controlled fall (the dogs were wrapped up and lowered to the ground safely) and so, one by one, we fell to the ground. Bruised and covered in cuts we stretched our aching bodies, ensured the booze was intact and turned to face a very thorny wood. We could see flashes of lights through the trees and the music was louder now. More determined than ever we trudged on. Now we were martyrs – we had suffered for our right to rage and by Jove we were going to. On the inside we felt like stoic pilgrimers, heads held high our destination fixed in our minds. We were graceful and ninja-like, darting amongst the foliage. On the outside we resembled a group of toddlers hopped up on sugar, shrieking and falling around in the woods.

There were blue and white lights trussed up in the branches of trees surrounding this perfect little glade, music floating in between gaps in the forest where you could spot revellers dancing and adventuring together. If you listened closely you could just hear the waves from the ocean nearby. Suddenly felt like Crysta of Fern Gully fame. I was an Outside Person, surrounded by ethereal lights and mystical creatures. I was agile and quick paced. No one could hear me unless I wanted to be heard. Of course, we all gallumphed into the party like elephants on heat but everyone turned to greet us with hugs and squeals befitting conquering heroes so everything was alright.

After much celebrating and drinking later I remember insisting that my friend and I switch onesies. I was adamant I wanted the Batman onesie and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. I have mentioned these episodes before in previous posts and I am very lucky to have friends who will indulge these childish and often unreasonable demands. It was fucking freezing on that beach but because I had decided I wanted that Batman onesie and my night would be ruined without it my friend K and I were stripping down to our underwear and swapping in front of everyone. We undertook the task with much giggling and falling over, as usual and then: I WAS BATMAN. Ready to tackle the streets of Gotham and dance some bat-dance moves but alas, the sun was coming up and it was time for us to pack up and go home. Our friends lead us in the opposite direction we had entered and lo and behold there was the pathway that we thought didn’t exist, a LARGE and VERY WIDE, easily spotted pathway that lead right up to our car with no sharp rocks or vertical drops. Just lots of lovely, soft sand and bushes.

Now I’m usually a very clean girl. I shower once a day, brush my teeth twice a day and floss regularly but some of that goes out the window when you have spent the night on the beach dancing your feelings away. Some of my stubbornness over the Batman onesie remained and I refused to take it off for a day and a half. I ensconced myself on the couch in it and did all my favourite hangover fat-slob things. It was the perfect excuse, though. I do what I want ‘coz I’m Batman.

Recently I have found myself paying rapt attention to certain advertisements on the TV. I watch captivated as couples frolic together, looking into each others eyes and sharing private jokes. Laughing prettily while they throw their arms around each others shoulders, walking hand in hand down sunny boardwalks and cavorting among rooftop gardens. This is not what you think, I am not watching couples in sexually charged perfume ads or happy attractive couples in coffee shops (you too can have a sexy man buy you a salad and text you back after he’s shagged you, if you sign up for our fail-safe dating app for serious non-tinders). My sense of longing comes from watching healthy yogurt and sporty tampon commercials where ladies in the same age range as me play tennis and dance together in slow motion in inexplicably clean nightclubs. Why, you may ask, am I feeling this way? I miss having a best friend who’s only a short walk down a hallway/short uber trip away since my move back to the UK. I want someone I can get hella-basic-white-gurl with and sit around eating halo ice cream (absolutely disgusting, pointless product in my opinion, but nothing tastes as good as skinny feels. not.) Someone I can watch reruns of Charmed with in my Victoria’s Secret Pink sweatpants, a topknot still firmly planted on my head despite falling rapidly out of fashion along with my glass of rose (ditto). I don’t care if it’s lame, overdone and uncool, I miss all of that. I even miss the silly bickering and stupid girl fights where you are both so annoyed with the other and you swear that is it, how could she say such a thing? She’s supposed to be your best friend. Well screw her — YOU don’t need her opinions or her friendship. But you know this is a lie and after shooting daggers at each other out of the corner of your eye for a day one of you will break and you will sit and talk, almost tearfully, on a couch before hugging and going back to normal.

It’s possible that all these gushy, despondent feels are only so intense being that it’s February 14th and I’m not very well. Now, please excuse me, I must get back to staring out of my window forlornly, dressed resolutely in my basic bae uniform pretending my carton of children's’ juice is actually a glass of wine. Truthfully, I probably wouldn’t say no to having a nice, handsome man around to bring me soup, flowers and a cuddle, however, I’ll have to make do with the duvet and the vegan salad I made myself.

I have a bad relationship with phone companies. Actually, let me rephrase; I have a bad relationship with any and all customer service lines. Now I am not usually that person, you know the one, the absolute arseholes who explode into expletives at the first sign of resistance on the opposite line. Even if I am seething with smoke rising from my eyes, ears and mouth, I will keep my cool because it is not that persons’ fault, they are just doing their job. It’s company policy and not their personal vendetta against me. Retail gave me a solid understanding of this and I am fully aware that you catch more flies with honey than with shit.

Now, I have been in an ongoing battle since moving back to the UK with my old phone provider — I had a perfectly working phone but it just needed to be unlocked. Fairly simple, straightforward experience, or so i thought. What ensued was a period of two months in which I was ringing the same customer service line every few days, each time receiving lashings upon lashings of heartfelt apologies and empty promises. Each time I was told different things to do, often opposing things. It was becoming akin to a quest to destroy rings and pieces of the devil incarnates’ soul in inanimate objects. I was to cross many lands and obstacles, trading in my beautiful singing voice to a sea witch in return for an unlocked phone. I was determined, no task was too difficult and no cost was too much.

“You need to pay $14 so we can officially close your account, you can’t pay it yet though. Call back when it’s gone through in a few days”

“No, you don’t owe us any money, your account is cleared and ready to unlock! I promise you we can unlock it right now. You should get an email in 3–5 business days”

“I apologize ma’am, I don’t know who told you that but it usually takes two weeks and we can’t promise you will get it unlocked but I will be able to unlock it now for you. No, I can’t promise but I can unlock it for you now. I lifted the hold that was on it before”

and so on and so forth.

My mother has been a huge part of this whole saga, mainly because my mum is the sort of person who needs to be involved with absolutely everything, at all times. It drives me mad and I often have to firmly eschew her but this time I needed a witness to this unfolding drama. Her slight inclination for the dramatics was firmly welcomed, just this once.

I had kept my cool up until this one phone call, and in my defense I didn’t shout directly at the customer service representative/Satan. The lady on the phone had just told me that my phone would never be unlocked despite having given them my not yet existing first born’s soul as I was trying to use it with a different sim card. I am not the most tech-savvy person in the world, but I’m quite sure that one of the main reasons you unlock a phone is so you can use sim cards that belong to different phone companies. When I received this news I had been sitting down in my bedroom but I found myself thundering downstairs searching for an aid in this persons’ retribution. I needed to let out this torrent of bewilderment and rage and I needed to do so on someone unreasonable. Someone like my mother.

“MUM! MUM! YOU’LL NEVER GUESS WHAT THEY’RE SAYING NOW! I CAN’T USE MY PHONE -

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T USE THE PHONE I THOUGHT -

I DIDN’T USE MY SIM CAR-

WHAT THE BLOODY HELL HAS THE SIM CARD GOT TO DO WITH IT. I-

I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. I CAN’T BELIEVE -

I’M GOING TO JUST GIVE THEM-

SUCH A WASTE OF TIME. ABSOLUTE BLOODY WORST-

ABSOLUTE BLOODY WORST!”

Needless to say, not my proudest moment. I had almost forgotten the lady was on the phone, bearing witness to all this silently. Even I can admit that it was a ludicrous display, but they did push me to the brink of insanity. When I had come to my senses, I said to Sauron that if I couldn’t use the phone then I wanted every penny of the $600 or so I had paid for the phone back. She placed me on a brief hold. When she came back on the line two seconds later I was told she had manually sent the unlock email. My phone was unlocked and working in less than 24 hours. I will not lie, seeing how easy it was after all that rigmarole made me want to throw the fucking thing out of the window. I hate phone companies.

Once upon a time, ages ago, I worked in a strip club. (No, I wasn’t a dancer). It was hilarious, fun and also completely mental. I was lucky enough to work in an establishment that was towards the higher end of gentleman’s clubs. Think more shiny, dance club and less strung out, sagging depression. I walked away from that place with quite a few stories, some sad, some hilarious and some I will probably never share on this blog. Who knows though — if I run out of material and get desperate I probably will pop one or two on here.

What follows is my favorite story, albeit a short one.

As is quite natural, there was a lot of fascination surrounding my employment at one of these establishments, particularly from the male contingent of my friends. As I was a host, it was in my power (within reason) to let some of my friends in without them having to pay the exorbitant entrance fees, as long as they spent money on the girls.

It was on one of these such occasions that my friend N had come to visit me, flanked by a few other wide eyed and smiling friends. Christmas had come early with bright lights, wrapped presents being opened in front of their eyes and all. (get it?)

The club had a few open platforms with poles dotted around the club floor that dancers would gyrate around and on, jiggling their bums and seductively sliding into the splits. It was next to one of these said platforms that N and I were having a conversation, I forget about what exactly. You would too if you had been there.

N was standing, quite innocently, next to the platform deep in conversation with me when out of nowhere a huge bejeweled bum, adorned in diamante chains came forcefully out of it’s surrounding poles and hit my friend N square in the side of his head.

I have never seen such an expression of jubilant fulfillment on anyone’s face to this day. All his birthday’s had come at once, no man has ever been this happy in a strip club and it was the most magical thing to witness. Down he went, almost in slow motion, blinking slowly while his mouth spread into a larger and larger open mouthed grin. He stumbled and managed to right himself before hitting the ground (just) and I burst into peals of laughter that kept coming until tears were streaming down my face and my mascara had run.

I don’t know where that dancer is now but I never got a chance to say thank you for making a good friends’ dream come true that he didn’t even know he had. Dancer, I salute you and your magnificent arse.

How original of me to write an existential article about approaching the age of 30 but nonetheless here it is: Ex party girl turned stay at home wifey (minus the handsome boyfriend and French bulldog puppy BUT plus my overbearing mother and an inordinate amount of time by myself).

I used to spend next to no time by myself. Even when out and about I would spend my time flitting from nightclub to nightclub until the wee hours of the morning, flirting with bartenders for free drinks like the social butterfly I thought I was. Gone are the days when I could shower, brush my teeth and put mascara on all at the same time. I would spring out of bed on half an hours worth of sleep and somehow make it to work on time (well not on time, 10 minutes late but that’s basically on time isn’t it?).

I would function almost like a human until lunch when I would fall gratefully on a huge mound of Mc Donald’s or pizza and usually a donut or three. After I had finished gorging myself on snacks I would curl up in any chair I could find so I could have a tiny snooze (complete with dribbling) until I would snore-rouse myself and get back on the floor for four more hours of folding jeans and being nice to people on purpose so they buy that t-shirt they’ve been dithering about with for 45 minutes (Fuck retail).

I often miss younger me. I think back on her fondly – she was wild and carefree. She was the most awkward individual you have ever known but it didn’t matter because her English accent was stronger so she could blame it on being foreign and eccentric. She didn’t need much sleep and could function hungover.

Now I have to plan my drinking with preciseness or woe betide me! I must have at least one day off the next day and I can no longer function hungover. A day and a half is required to recover fully. I shall be 29 this year and the sparkling party girl has all but left, she became annoyed because I could no longer keep up. She left me, probably to go to some glittering rager that never ends. Good luck to her, I’m much happier at home with my phone and my laptop and sleep. Although, sometimes, whenever I do venture into a pub or a bar sometime around my third drink I do wish that I could join her. This very quickly passes as by the fifth drink I usually fall into a deep sleep having left half of it behind because I couldn’t handle it. I can usually hear party me laughing softly at me just before I slip into unconsciousness.

And so, onto Part 2. I know all of you have been waiting with baited breath to hear about my next embarrassing endeavour with S.C. So let me set the scene for you:

S.C and I had seen each other a few times since our eventful first date. I had decided I liked him. Things had advanced to the stage of introducing each other to our friends and luckily for me this occasion coincided with a visit from my oldest friend Sophie. She had flown 5351 miles to visit me (you can google the distance from London to San Francisco if you don’t believe me. God bless Google and all it’s random fact checking usefulness) and I was, needless to say, incredibly nervous.

“You should eat something” she admonished. She has known me for a long time so she knows how I behave when I am nervous and/or excited. I declined to do so, my stomach was tying itself in knots and I reasoned the alcohol would hit me quicker making me charming and funny. The perfect English girl, full to bursting with wit. I imagined myself surrounded by friends all hanging on eagerly to my amusing quips. They were all laughing in my head and telling S.C how funny and amazing I was and wasn’t he lucky to have found such a gem online.

We arrived at the designated bar and found S.C and Co and the evening went underway, slightly awkwardly.

Now. It is at this point that things become quite hazy, having finished my first few drinks quite quickly. I can’t remember exactly what happened at the bar but nothing too frightful jumps out in my memory so it must have been alright? I can’t answer entirely honestly. It transpires that he and his friends had bought a hotel room for the night and Sophie and I were asked if we would like to join them at said hotel. We agreed, or rather I agreed having told Sophie this is what we would be doing.

At some point on our journey we had stopped for snacks and I remember asking for pink Gatorade. If you are not sure what Gatorade is it is a sugary liquid advertised as being useful for hydration during heavy sports but is mainly used to help with hangovers. Perhaps in my drunken haze I had foreseen this would be necessary.

Once safely ensconced in the hotel more drinks were given to me (on my request) and I fell into a deeper haze. I had the undeniable urge for a cigarette and was adamant that I would go downstairs by myself and have one. The rather cringe worthy memory of me running along the hotel hallways giggling to myself is ingrained in my memory.

At this point I would like to say that I was about 22 and just a ludicrous person as most of us are at 22. The next thing I remember is being approached by S.C and his friend outside the hotel where I had been engaging in a very important conversation about nothing with the doorman. I was slightly confused as to why S.C was holding my shoes. I must have forgotten them in my haste to cure my nicotine addiction but no matter.

The next thing I was waking up quite safely tucked into a bed next to S.C with the most almighty headache and that ever so awful queasy feeling in my stomach. Something Had Happened. I just knew it. I was gripped by fear, and rightly so. Sophie was awake nearby and was looking at me uncertainly. “Hello mate” she said with a slight furrow in her brow and (oh shit) a hint of that face people make when they are trying not to laugh in your face. “What happened?” I said blearily. She stood up and took me into the bathroom. There was pink stuff on the walls. The Pink Gatorade. It transpires that she had had to hold my hair back and generally babysit this ball of absolute mess while I emptied all the no food and copious amounts of alcohol into a hotel bathroom toilet and, apparently, everywhere else whilst my current paramour listened to every agonising and embarrassing moment through the rather thin hotel walls after having to escort me safely back to the hotel room, bringing my shoes along because I had forgotten them and then putting me to bed.

Inexplicably, he wanted to see me again after this but (luckily for me) things disintegrated before I could do anything else horrifying.

The phrase “forever alone” springs to mind…

Dating #1 (b) was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

So in order to protect namely me, let’s call him by not his actual name. His initials were S.C so let’s go with that for now. S.C messaged me and we arranged to go out for a drink, he came to pick me up in his car and we started talking and things seemed to be going well despite my nervous and shaky disposition (I used to shake when I was nervous/tired/ate too much sugar/excited/angry/hungover, I have since stopped this due to making healthier choices). I asked him what the weirdest date he’d ever had on the website had been (standard question, nice easy intro for funny stories) and he told me about a girl who’s uncle (?) had joined them unannounced and chaperoned the entire date. I remember thinking to myself “how awkward! Well this date shall be a breeze, I’m already doing better. What a weirdo!” Karma for my judgement was coming and it was swift and it was just.

We arrived at the bar he/I picked and he went to go buy us some drinks. I was feeling rather confident and my makeup was phenomenal that evening. Flawless. I was feeeeeeeling myself. We talked some more and had another round of drinks. The bar had filled up considerably, there was hardly any standing room left and I was laughing a lot.

It was around this time I started to feel the urge for a cigarette, I asked him if he smoked and he said he would join me. We went outside and we continued our laughing. I breathed out the smoke I’d just inhaled and it went in my eye. Now, most of you know that this is agonising and a pain in the arse but generally it’s over in a few seconds and you become righted once more, no harm done.

I don’t know if it was my eyelash glue, or a stray piece of dust or what but after I got the smoke in my eye it did not right itself. It got worse. And worse. I tried to play it off but eventually he noticed. Probably due to the fact that my heavy black eyeliner was streaming down my face in rivulets and I looked like a shit impression of a pirate. He asked if I was ok – I said I had something in my eye and he asked if he should help me to the bathroom. I acquiesced, feeling a rising heat in my cheeks. Being led through a busy bar in front of 100 odd people whilst clutching your eye, underneath which black and silver stuff are making interesting journeys on your face, is not an experience I would recommend as enjoyable.

We arrived at the bathroom and he opened the door for me and I threw myself into the mercy of a private area. I stumbled my way over to a mirror above a sink. My eye was still keeping itself firmly shut. I know everyone always says things like “it’s not as bad as you think it is” or “it’s not that noticeable”. It definitely was bad and it was definitely very noticeable. I recoiled in horror at my image. I looked like a member of Kiss after a heavy weekend bender, complete with one closed eye as if from a drunken rockstar brawl. Sadly, I am not this cool. I was amazed he hadn’t run screaming into his car.

Now, I set my mind to fixing it. It had already happened, nothing I could do now etc. I ran my eye under a tap to flush out whatever was gripping grimly to my iris and success! I felt a relief sweep over me and I started to calm down. I now resembled a grubby orphan – black and silver smeared everywhere on one side. No matter though, I always bring my makeup bag. I am that girl – I ALWAYS bring my makeup everywhere.

I reached into my bag and couldn’t feel it at first, a slight hiccup of fear launched in my stomach. No matter, its there I wasjust being silly. My search became a little frantic – I couldn’t find it. Had I left it in his car? Had I left it on a bus somewhere? When had I last had it? Had I lost £300 worth of makeup? And then, memory struck. I had changed bags and left it on my dressing table. I could picture it smugly sitting there, taunting me, telling me “Well if you’d been paying attention you wouldn’t have left me and you wouldn’t be in this mess” much like my parents have been known to say to me (they are right, of course). My heart sank and I was left in utter despair. I tried as best I could to wash the grub off and was left with an odd blotchy grey/green almost iridescent sheen that made me look severely unwell. One side of my face was still beautifully made up, making the contrast more evident. With nothing else to be done I took a deep breath and glumly found my way over to the table where S.C was sitting. I sat down in front of him and attempted a smile. I must commend this man on what he did next. He really tried. He didn’t laugh (at first) he simply said, after physically being taken aback, “I like it. You look futuristic” at which point I believe we both started laughing and continued to drink and then we ended up walking around for three hours looking for his car and I was driven home. Unfathomably he wanted to see me again. I still to this day do not know why and we saw each other a few times after that and then it came time to meet his friends…

But I’ll tell you all about that in part 2.

It is no wonder I am not holding anyone’s hand but my own, to be honest. Thank goodness I have good friends and possibly strangers who will find this even more hilarious than I do.