Wot no party?

We had been invited to a party. Three of us were off for a great night out. The party had been sold to us principally on the promise of the presence of a motorcycle team. There is something of the mysterious and desirable about the unknown: images of leather clad, almost famous, sporty young men, who would pay a girl, recently split from her first great love, some well needed attention.

At a time in life when you look your very best - based on having no spare weight, no greys and fresh, line free skin - I should have pulled a brush quickly through my hair, hauled on jeans and a T shirt, and shot out the door. Well, that's what I do now. But the desire to stun, or try, and ompete with anyone else there, meant spending considerbale time on my post-punk make up. Heavily made up eyes, lined in blue-black, pale skin, sharp to cutting point cheek bones and deepest red lips were definitely irresistible. My wayward, slippery hair loathed being back combed, so it was scraped through quite viciously with generous, strategically placed spurts of hairspray, applied to keep it standing to attention.

En route, we stopped for the obligatory alcoholic offering. True to student form, we bought the biggest, cheapest bottle of white plonk available.

We arrived, early, very early. In fact we were the only people there, apart from our hosts.

"Let's open that drink for you", Pete offered. He didn't need to ask twice. We were keen to enhance the mood. Intent on having a cracking good time, I gulped the vinegary liquid down, and when the offer came to refill the glass. I accepted happily. Willingly, ignorantly, I refilled again, and again and again.

There are many blanks in the events of that evening, intercepted by bits of shocking, slow motion film, which includes a vision of me, leaning against the wall, and sinking, rag doll- like to the grubby floor, and staying there, totally unable to move: paralytic.

"She's not like this at home, you know". I quite clearly hear my sister's amused, almost delighted voice. "It's so funny to see her.....such a goody, goody normally".

I am aware of someone stepping over the top of me. Oh, God. I realize I am lying in the bathroom, next to the toilet. Someone is urinating into the bowl, just past my head. Uggh!

Indefinable hours later, my brain starts reconnecting with my body. "Move", it instructs. I tentatively try out my limbs. With throbbing head I drag myself to my feet. I sense silence, everywhere. Lurching forward, and into the tatty lounge, rays of daylight seep through the insubstantial curtains. Bodies are strewn in foetal positions, sleeping soundly.

No movement. No motorcycle team. No fun. Party over...

Not a drop of white wine passed my lips for at least ten years. However, I did develop a taste for scotch, which I drink, with caution, to the day.