The trouble with being drunk in a bar is that boys will ask for your number. The trouble with being drunker than you ought is that you'll give it to them. And the trouble with drunkenly giving your number to boys in bars is that you don’t have the foggiest who they are when they call.
How pissed were you on Friday night? I fired off an email to Hot Flyer Boy, with whom I’d been drinking, at the start of the following week.
Enough that it took me six hours to get home because I kept falling asleep on the tube and ending up in bloody Morden, he wrote. Why?
Don’t s’pose you saw me talking to any guys?
Um, some, I think. [Urgh. Inward cringe.] Why?
I seem to have given some guy my number. He’s texted and asked me out for drinks, but I have no idea who he is.
“He’s now in my phone as X open brackets lawyer question mark close brackets from bar,” I said to PolitiGal (also present at the scene of the crime) when I called her at lunchtime to check. “He doesn’t ring any bells with you, does he?”
“Well, I remember some guy coming to talk to you, but I can’t picture his face.”
Any clues? HFB said later on that afternoon, clearly shirking work as much as I was.
He’s called X, I said. Texts seem to suggest he might be a lawyer.
HFB didn’t take too long to mail back.
Might know who he is. My colleague’s housemate brought his friend. He’s called X. Think he’s an investment banker, though.
A few seconds later, another email pinged into the inbox.
Is this him, on the left? Ignore the costume.
I opened a picture to see two guys and a girl, apparently at one of HFB’s themed, fancy-dress pub crawls.
In a moment of stark realisation, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I might have let my hair down just a little too loosely.
Oh gods, I fired back. I still don’t know.
Then you’re a drunken hussy, he said, and I can’t help you.
Three people and a photograph later, and I still don’t know whether X (lawyer?) From Bar is the person I think he might be.
So, naturally, we’re going out for drinks. Well. What could go wrong?
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