A girl I had fancied for a good two years finally broke up with her boyfriend, giving me the opportunity to sweep her off her feet. I took her to a swanky wine bar and wooed her like a pro. Two bottles later we stumbled into the night air, arm in arm, at which point she declared in a most unladylike fashion, “I’ve not had any dinner, I’m completely fucking battered.” She made a beeline for a nearby deserted children’s playground where she fell to her knees, retching violently like a cat ejecting a furball. I spent the next hour holding her hair back while she emptied her guts on the seesaw, stopping only to remind me apologetically how much money I’d wasted by buying all that wine. Finally she struggled to her feet, then immediately passed out in my arms. I bundled her into a cab. She regained consciousness just enough to tell me her address; ten minutes later we got there – it was the wrong address. She was so drunk she’d forgotten where she lived. When we did eventually get to her place, the meter read £33.60. Needless to say she’d left her wallet in the bar.
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