Oh dear folks. It’s been a while since I did something so completely inadvisable that I felt the burning desire to share it with you lot and invite you into my shame spiral.
I was doing so well this year – I’ve been working my bootilicious arse off in London and globe trotting like a mother trucker, and generally keeping out of trouble. For the most part.
You knew it was too good to last, right? Quite.
The last few weeks, I’ve been facebook courted by a well meaning funny man. I’ve never been particularly physically attracted to him, but it’s been a dry year in the date stakes and considering I live with the most sickening pair of lovebirds ever to walk the Earth, eventually something’s gotta give. And it did. In a big way.
It started off so well, he did his research, took me to a fancy veggie restaurant, bought the drinks, kept the conversation flowing, and all was going swimmingly. I still didn’t fancy him, and was content to just have a nice evening and then go back to being casual acquaintances, but for some godforsaken reason instead I allowed myself to drink so much wine that I forgot my own name, thought it was a really good idea to do Sambuca shots when we ran into some mutual friends in a theatre bar, and genuinely do not remember getting home. I don’t understand how the cabbie managed to find my house, unless I have just forgotten that whole conversation, but all I do remember is waking up the next morning, rather naked, next to a person I don’t fancy, also rather naked, and thinking; OH MY FUCKING LORD NOT AGAIN RITZI.
As a result, I’ve spent most of the weekend wallowing in shame, hiding from the world, showering repeatedly.
Apparently I need to download my own make believe Cock-blocker app.
To give the poor boy some credit, he has been texting saying what a lovely time he had, and I shouldn’t feel bad because he acted just as slutty as I did. Well, this is little comfort, because if I was paralytically smashed off my tits, he must have been slightly less so, otherwise we would have woken up somewhere on the stoop of my office. I’m pretty sure I was disgustingly drunk, and that can’t have been pretty. Blondie has an eyeful burned into the back of her eyelids from Turkey that I’m sure will support that theory.
Oh, and that brings me to the hilarity of the aftermath. I bundled the boy into the shower, prattling on about my gym date that I just had to keep (note, definitely had a gym date, definitely didn’t keep it) and frantically bashed out a text to Blondie. Moments passed and the door to her boudoir opened. I raced down the hallway and shoved the pair of them back into the room before they could say anything, because OF COURSE Blondie doesn’t check her phone like ever when the PM’s around.
‘What’s going on?’ Blondie asks.
‘I may have shagged the Comedian last night and he might still be in the shower. YOU HAVE TO HIDE IN HERE UNTIL I GET RID OF HIM.’
True to form, the blissfully happy folk found this unfortunate situation hilarious.
Not too long after I get a text from Blondie: ‘PM needs a wee!’
Very discreetly, I whack out a text letting them know the coast is clear, and he best pee quickly, which (to his credit) he does. I wait until the boudoir door closes and then – and only then – do I usher the poor bloke out into the hallway, down the stairs and out into freezing cold Londinium.
I return to the flat, barge into Blondie’s room and wordlessly sound out my shame while burying my face in her duvet, much to their amusement. This goes on for quite some time.
Honest to Lucifer, what the flying fuck is wrong with me? And where have all the men gone who say things like; ‘No, we can’t do this, you’re too drunk, it wouldn’t be right.’ Have there ever actually been men like that or did Hollywood make them up?
And so here we are, Sunday evening, just about human again, ready to watch Downton and eat chilli and enter a week of full on work craziness, and right back in the world of making VERY BAD DATING DECISIONS.
Judge away people, judge away. I shall do nothing to defend myself, and accept my University of Life report card that reads ‘must do better’ with grace. Gah.