The morning after my birthday party, which had ended with a small cluster of wellwishers taking to a darkened Soho dance floor whilst I got close to a best friend's Cambridge manfriend, I woke up at eight to the sound of my phone alarm going off downstairs. I turned over, sleepily, and saw said manfriend still asleep.
Bugger.
I ran downstairs to switch it off, but it was too late, my family had been wakened. As long as I could keep them out of my room, I figured, all would be fine. Both other occupants of my family home were due to go out that morning, all I had to do was keep up the lie-in until I'd heard the door slam a couple of times, and the two of us could make it downstairs in peace for some top class instant coffee and a bowl of branflakes. Delicious, I thought. Unfortunately, this was clearly not meant to be.
After returning to the bed upstairs I heard the slow plod of my early rising mother descending downstairs. One down, I thought, only my sister to go and I'd be safe.
Two minutes later however, there came the horrified shriek of a menopausal woman possessed. "Whose shoes are these?!" she bellowed. Shit.
I leapt over the manfriend, sprinted below and tried to reason with my mother. It didn't work. Two minutes later came the "I want him out of my house, now!"
Always a great way to introduce a guy to the family at ten past eight in the morning after very little sleep. I haven't heard from him since.
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