Watch where you wake up

To sum:

I abandoned my visiting friend from home to attend the West End bon voyage of the flannel-wearing Jew with the Audio Bullys booked on the decks.

I wore a black American Apparel dress with black tights and structural heels, a pair of plimsolls and a toothbrush in my bag and high hopes hammering on my heart.

I arrived to find the Swedish model wracked with news of posh Tim's recent indiscretions, my crush wearing a denim shirt and an unknown girl as an accessory, and magnums of Grey Goose in the VIP.

I left after several unaccounted hours of distress and drunkenness, stumbling into Oxford Circus with nothing but my leather jacket, having been robbed of mine and Joanna's wallets, my keys, bus pass, cell phone, camera, mp3 player, Double Mint and any sense of security I had grasped at over the previous month.

Eventually I found myself several kilometres away, denying sleep in a corner of an ill-reputed neighbourhood whilst awaiting sunrise and sobriety. Jumped the barrier at the Underground station as soon as it opened and hitched a ride into W12 to wait on my front steps for three hours until someone awoke to let me in.

By noon, I swore never to drink Grey Goose again and cried into my cocoa until I fell asleep until late the next day.