A perfect end to the night
A good few years back, me and the future Mr Smaldini lived together in a student house with several other miscreants. Mr Smaldini had a pokey room downstairs, riddled with fragments of broken computers and unwashed pants, so generally we slept together in my (larger, less Life Of Grime esque) room.

Cue his sister's wedding. Much alcohol was drunk. Much, much, much. My husband was thrown in a taxi after a member from Hearsay wandered into the hotel foyer, and Mr Smaldini affectionately called him Shrek, and demanded he sign his own hat. It all gets a bit hazy then, but I wake up downstairs in his room, with my comatose bloke asleep upstairs.

Assuming we've had an argument I simply don't recall, I hatch the cunning plan to sneak back into bed with him and pretend that nothing had happened - he's not going to remember a thing, after all. I remember feeling terribly smug about this deception. I was a drunken genius.

I made a terrible mistake. As I wake the next day, stuck to my bed, hair glued to my face, I realise that I had decided to sleep downstairs because he had, rather inconsiderately, puked all over my pillow.
(Smaldini www.fuggler.com, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 12:55, Reply)