Who the Hell is Andrew ??

I woke up early with buckets of left over energy from the night before and 5 texts from Andrew declaring how much fun he had last night. “Who the hell is Andrew?” Half-drunk and hungry, I took no notice of the texts and began my journey of discovery into the world of deep-fried meats covered in cheese and basked in the glory of milkshake dreams.

I spent the day violently and spontaneously twitching every time I had a blurry flash back of the night before. There were the usual memories of chain-smoking with strangers, coming on to the bouncers and dropping all the contents of my bag on the bathroom floor… but that was a standard night out. There were so many other bits and pieces that happened and I just could couldn’t piece it together. My heart raced to my arse as I thought of all of the possible scenarios. I vaguely remembered dancing with a group of strangers and getting photos with them. CRINGE! I danced with a young boy no older than 18  (shit! Did I kiss a young boy last night?) aww…fuckety fuck! I DID! I kissed a fucking teenager last night…

THEN my phone vibrated. Another text from this Andrew person. “Are you Alive?” it read.

Whatever happened last night Andrew has the answer! So I texted him back. mistake#3

 

 

 

Andrew the Ankle Toucher: Part One

THE QUESTIONABLE EVENTS of LAST SUMMER:

Saturday night in a corner of the darkened dance floor in a seaside pub away from home. Blurry eyed and struggling to dance because the sambucca had robbed me of my rhythm AND the tequila was making me perform for a group of strangers that were quite obviously celebrating something that had nothing to do with me. I’m sure I looked wonderful as my sweat blessed the passers-by and I grinned like the fucking Cheshire cat dancing to a song that no one else could hear. (Enter Andrew.)
He hooked his arm around my waist in an attempt to either dance with me or maybe just to keep me from falling over sideways… It doesn’t matter anyway because the whiskey dared me to kiss him. (MISTAKE NO.1)
AT 3AM the D.J suddenly announced that the night was over and switched on his brightest flood light. My eyes were tiny pin holes of blood-shot yellow that sprinkled black flakes of dried up mascara on to my flushed cheeks. Dark red lip gloss smeared around my mouth like I was a lion mid feed and the fumes of stiff alcohol that rocketed out of my mouth orbited my body and wafted anyone in its way. Andrew said “You look beautiful”. (Yes Andrew, I’m fucking breath-taking. LITERALLY. People are gasping in horror!) His lack of judgement here should have been a BIG warning sign but instead of saying a polite goodbye and legging it all the way to Dublin – I said

“Here! Please take my number and make sure you text me OH!…and here’s my full name and address so you can find me on Facebook and here’s my postcode too incase you want to send me a letter. Would you like my bank details so we can open a joint account?” (MISTAKE NO.2)

He said yes…

**to be continued**