I wake, hungover. The LTLP has disappeared downstairs.

Something does not feel right.

Under my outstretched arm the bed seems a bit… gritty.

I need the toilet anyway, so I sit up and pull the duvet to one side.

Her allocated half of the bed is smeared in dried mud. There are leaves and a couple of yellow petals stuck to the sheet. I stare at this, goggle-eyed.

This has not happened before.

I don’t know much about such things, and at first I think she must have had some sort of very unusual kind of women’s period. But I do recall her sleeping in her clothes, so this cannot be the case.

Then I remember pulling her out of the garden hedge last night.


In real life she is Doctor LTLP, a fairly eminent scientist in her field. This sort of drunk behaviour is inexcusable.

Garden hedges indeed. It is undignified.


I wake, hungover. The LTLP has disappeared downstairs.

She reappears, cross. Apparently last night I had to be picked up from Big A’s floor and assisted home by her and Short Tony. Then I wouldn’t stop trying to sing and play ‘My Generation’ on the guitar.

However, I have always worked in what’s wankily known as ‘The Creative Industries’ and am a fairly arty sort of person. Therefore such drunk behaviour is bohemian and daring, and exposes the fascinating contradictions behind my tortured soul.

That is unfair, I know. Double standards.

But I don’t make the rules.