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I did go to bed at the end of a nine hour blitzkrieg of a birthday party uttering the words out very loud ‘GUTTED. FUCKING GUTTED. GUTTED’.

Not a good end to one’s do, you might think. But it was all going so WELL….or so I thought.

Over the past few days I’ve been travelling about town getting the party feedback. ‘crazed monkey’. ‘polly darton’. ‘erm, just saw gyrating and presumed you were kissing so couldn’t look at you anymore’ (wife). ‘fine, fine, you were like that with EVERYONE’ (husband).

But before this, I had been playing a cluedo of who it was I kissed. Someone inappropriate. Okay, there’s the three older guys. Could’ve easily been one of them. A woman. Easily. My ex. Easily. Someone else’s boyfriend. Maybe. My own brother. Almost certainly. A gay. Quite possibly.

But later when asking who the hell it was I went too far with in a kiss, my wife pipes up ‘maybe your ex-boyfriend, he was there at the end? Actually, it might have been me……….’ Had a feeling it was a woman. I finally kissed my fucking wife. And about time too.

But not my boy, no. he turned up at the same time as one of my faves, and there’s documentary evidence not only of me playing a sea shanty about anal sex to a room full of people wailing along, but pictures of us draped about each other. Which I don’t remember. And they’re on facebook. Thanks Johnny. With a picture I drew of him. Oh Christ, that isn’t going to help.

However, the faithful duke informs me that ‘it’s okay, you were like that with everyone. At the end you jumped from straddling lap to lap, man, woman and beast. So you acted normally. I’m very proud’.

This was after he gave me a full-on lecture of how I might ruin my party by hankering to the young thing’s needs. Of which he obviously has none.

It’s Sunday now. Countdown to my actual birthday. I feel remarkably sober and well for a has-been who has been pushing her liver through the paces for the last 48 hours or so….

The evening per sae ends after chocolate and guitar with Duke. On the way back from Duke’s I think about wine. My poor obliterated liver. Then I think about the wine shop. And the eastern European behind the counter. I like him, he slips right out of the chav wineshop-man category by his lineage. Fit. Slightly off. I go in when I’m pissed and want to grab him and take him with me with my knock-off merlot.

I walk in, feeling stoned and frisky. Ready for a bit of leering.

But be careful what you wish for when you’re on the starting line for an unconvincing rebound. It’s some fucking rancid long-haired beast behind the counter. And I’m alone in the shop with a flirty whiff coming off of me. And he’s playing Michael fricking Buble ‘I just haven’t met you yet’. How sodding depressing. I need to leg it out of the shop before the birthday blues hit me four hours early.

So, will he text me at midnight as I did him on his special day?

If he does, he’ll be a cunt. If he doesn’t, he’ll be a cunt.