I woke up next morning with my head splitting, my eyes burning, and my face in Arthur’s crotch. Apparently we’d forgotten the not-having-s*x bit at some point last night. Ah well, if you can’t remember it, it doesn’t count. I got up a little too hastily, and staggered to the bathroom.
Cheesy balls, red wine, and vodka do not a happy barfer make.
Arthur was snoring gently, the empty bottle of wine gathered lovingly in his arms. I collected up the papers before he could do something unspeakable on them, and left. Not, I might add, to head straight for the London offices of Mortar and Slay. I had other fish to feed, and after that I required several gallons of mineral water and a lukewarm bath. And a nice, long lie down without my contacts in, before calling in to work and explaining sadly
