HOW many parties?

A few mornings ago, some kind of crazy miracle happened.

I managed to get my ass out of bed after 2 1/2 hours sleep, 6 espresso cocktails, 4 glasses of wine, 2 weird cranberry things, half a glass of champage and and 2 tequila shots, and stumble through an entire day of work. A weirdly productive one at that. I’m so creative when I’m smashed.

You see, it all started about a week ago when a friendly PR I know sent me an invite to a fabulous awards party in exchange for passing more invites onto a selection of famous people.

I passed on the invite – however said famous people are in West End shows and therefore unable to attend a 9-midnight shindig… but Ritzi’s free!

Downside – also happened to be on the same night as a press night that I had already RSVP’d yes to. DARN IT. The solution? Go to both of course!

So, at 8.30, I’m legging it out of the door of my office, fancy invite in hand, and hopping a cab to Mayfair, where legendary diva The Guru and I then proceeded to party on down with exceptionally cool people, most of whom popped up on 3am.co.uk the next day much to my surprise.

(I really need to pay a bit more attention to pop culture outside of the 1980′s and know who the heck people are.)

A few hours later, after an awful lot of cocktails, The Guru apparently knew absolutely everyone in the room, and had no issue with my crying off early from partay number one. I left just before she stumbled spectacularly and threw her espresso martini all over the designer suit of a rather nicely turned out gentleman.

*side steps*

Into another cab I leapt, yelling out (slightly drunkenly) the address of a West Endy venue across town. It’s after 11pm by this point, but there was so much caffeine in those cocktails that I practically bounced down the red carpet into the next party. Then I discovered the slippery shiny floor and promptly stopped bouncing, lest I break a limb.

Much as I adore a posh party, with people in attendance I’d probably recognise if I didn’t spend most of my time locked away in a darkened room in theatreland, I can’t escape the fact that walking into a slightly less polished, rather more rowdy gathering where the drinks on offer are fairly decent wine and shots of tequila, I instantly feel at home. I hit the bar immediately, greeted by a chorus of wordless cheering that could have been my name – I couldn’t tell. Then for about an hour I was dragged around from person to person, congratulating, gushing, flirting my ass off with the cast, and generally schmoozing my socks off.

Despite the fact that I knew, even then, that the next morning was going to be sheer TORTURE, I still love my crazy life sometimes. Especially on occasions like that. Even more so on occasions like that when I happen to run into The Ex while he’s doing his rounds as a West End Leading Man, all the while looking hot and having very little time to talk to him on account of working the room so damn much.