Have a pea:
In my late teens, I started going out with a vicar's daughter, and, as the relationship developed, I was invited to the vicarage for the weekend.

While the vicar and his wife were absolutely lovely, they couldn't have made their position on our relationship more clear: my girlfriend's room was at that end of the huge long corridor, mine at the other, right next to the parent's bedroom.

While that wasn't too daunting in itself - all teenagers become adept at parent-evasion - I hadn't banked on the fact that the vicarage still had the old WWII black-out curtains in that corridor.

So at about 2am, having stayed up with my girlfriend "watching telly" and pretty well only that as it happens, I go to bed.

It is pitch black in the corridor. Like - proper, no light. She closed her door, and I was in complete darkness. Not even vague light from reflections downstairs.

OK. I know my room's at the end. I walk cautiously fowards with my hands in front, and, reaching what feels to be the end of the corridor, turn to my right and go in to the room.

Over-excited with the teenage horn, on arrival I'd basically thrown my bag on the bed and been done with it, so where the light switch is I don't know.

I start the tedious process of feeling my way around the room trying to find some form of illumination, but happily instead find the bed. I therefore strip to my shorts and get in, to be greeted by her mother screaming "WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!", her father banging the light on and the sight of myself in the mirror opposite dressed in only my shorts rapidly getting entangled in the blankets as I try desperately to run away from everything ever for all of time and the rest of my life.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 7 Jan 2011, 12:34, Reply)