my most expensive bottle of wine ever
i'd agreed to spend a weekend helping out a guy at work at a trade show, but the only way he could pay me was through his expenses so he offered to fund a date. a year earlier, i'd met a guy i'd clicked with straight away but finished with the next morning due to feeling messed up after a bad split. a year on, i was feeling normal again so i sent him a text along the lines of

'sorry to contact you out the blue. i have up to £150 to spend on dinner with you if you'd like.'

no kisses so as not to be presumptuous.

he waits until i've assumed it's 'no' to reply with 'yes'. i do the victory dance. i pick a posh restaurant in london. i wear my special size 9 trousers, which fit almost biologically, and matching underwear. i intend to do some seducing tonight.

we meet at the restaurant and have a drink in the bar. it's the first time i've ever asked anyone on a date and i'm a bit nervous. i talk more when i'm nervous, which dries my throat and makes me need to drink cocktails. at the table, my date orders a £75 bottle of wine blowing half my budget. oh well, should have seen that coming. not feeling so nervous now, but i'm unable to stop talking and drinking and i barely notice the steak on the plate in front of me which goes cold.

i decide to go to the toilet, colliding with a waitress on the way. in the toilet, which is inexplicably shaped as an egg, i decide that it would be a good idea to skin up because we all know that after you've drunk cocktails, a considerable proportion of a £75 bottle of wine and skipped your dinner, what you really need to sort you out is some powerful skunk. by the time i finish, i am dimly aware that it feels like i haven't seen my date in a while. i'm pleasantly surprised that by the time i negotiate my way back to the table, he's still there so it seems like a good idea to suggest moving the party on. he's up for it so i pay the £300+ bill and we head out into the night.

the air outside is fresh and cold as we walk arm in arm through the streets of london. i spark up my spliff, amused that it's hard to tell when the smoke stops and my breath's vapour starts and therefore difficult to know when to stop exhaling so i don't realise what's happening until it's too late.

sometimes when you throw up, you get that feeling of having a knot somewhere between your stomach and your mouth, you find your mouth filling up with saliva and you're swallowing constantly. you start sweating and your hands shake uncontrollably. then you retch and you retch, your whole body straining with the effort, leaving you panting with exhaustion. other times you have no warning at all and before you know what's going on, you're spraying vomit over 2 square metres of pavement, your date, yourself and a couple of passers by.

clearly a glutton for punishment, my date takes me back to his house where i throw up all over both bathrooms, one of which is his landlady's. when she wanders out of her room in her nightgown to see what the noise is, i scream at her, believing her to be a ghost.

i remember how red my vomit was because, as i first looked down at it, spattered all over my dark navy, slightly iridescent size 9 trousers, still steaming, i thought 'what a waste of 75 quid'. and then 'wow, it looks like fireworks'.
(threadkiller, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 1:22, 1 reply)

This
is pretty well written and yes, I know that "cheeky spliff" feeling, so have a click!
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 8 Aug 2008, 9:10, closed)