I have finally mopped.

Mopped, ladies and gentlemen, and swept and all of the things you do after twelve people who you adore have populated your house and laughed and eaten and drunk and seemingly dropped everything in the world on the floor.

There was punch, which makes the floor sticky and also slips down a treat until the bloody room is spinning and you are snorting about the Famous Five.

There were breadcrumbs and cake crumbs and noodles and also buttons and beer caps and a cork and some money.

Not mine.

Nobody took any photos which is sad (I mean, not of the floor, that is an image best left to fester in the memory alone) but the doilies remain unrecorded and the candles in glasses because occasionally I lose sight of irony and skip through the pages of pinterest wedding paraphernalia and although I refrained from using the phrase ‘upcycled’, there was an occasion where the guests had to lick their cutlery between main and pudding, which is surely the same thing.

Sure, cooking for thirteen after your first week in a new job is a fundamentally silly thing to do. So is getting so drunk that the morning after you find a nice new brunch place and then sit unable to eat anything, hoping the nausea subsides.

But I am now in bed, watching Glee, and feeling lovely.

I leave you with my guilty pleasures of the week, a selection that is making my Sunday hangover ever so slightly less disgusting:

Flo Rida, for when you simply can’t live any longer without seeing a rapper skydive over Dubai (I know, its been AGES), and Paulo Nutini, for when I am homesick and feeling lazy.

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