It was a jeans and a nice top kind of night. I found myself drinking with friends… and him. The ex-something? Ex-everything? Anyway, I was far from ecstatic about the whole setting and knew I had to be on my best behaviour before pint number three started asking him if he had ever thought about looking into a mortgage with me.
Drinks were going down well, so well that I somehow agreed to shots. I wasn’t feeling particularly tipsy, but the tequila had that immediate impact where my gut turned into a gymnast. I was determined not to upchuck anytime within the next 30 seconds because firstly, morto. Secondly, I was the height of sophistication in my peplum top. And thirdly, if the pasta I had for lunch came up it might bring with it all the words I never said to him from last year. Likely scenario.
Then, it started, the countdown to the vom. “Just going to the bathroom!” I announced before shuffling round the corner and legging it the rest of the way, hand over my mouth. By the time I reached the door, I was heaving, and bumped into a member of the bar staff, who looked at me, a bit concerned but also super grossed out.
I spent the next 10 minutes vomiting my guts up and doing an entire Mia Thermopolis makeover on myself ready for my grand reappearance. Everything was fine, I felt way better as I headed back out.
However, when I reached the table, half the crew had disappeared. I sat down with the few that were left, him being one of them. “Sorry, the loo was packed!” I said subtly, still sucking on a polo. “Oh, you alright though?” He responded. “He came over to tell me you were throwing up?” pointing to the guy behind the bar. I almost choked on my polo.
Bloody great. So about that mortgage…
