Blonde's Eye View: Best to bottle it

It's the aftermath that troubles me the most.

I'm a vivacious, coherent drunk, who has no ability to remember what she was talking about the next day.

I may appear mildly tiddly, but in reality I'm smashed.

Don't get me wrong, too many Sambucas and I slur and stagger, but before I reach that stage there are hours of blackouts masquerading as moderation.

Perfect for a convincingly sober chat with the boss at a work do, not so perfect for the things I find out I agreed to after.

Several years ago I found The Wharf editor's card in my pocket, "400 words by Monday" scrawled on the back.

I'd never written anything in my life.

If my drinking buddies think I'm compos mentis, they see no need to double check whatever I said or agreed to with the sober me.

This week I received a text from a friend confirming she'd brought the tickets.

I had no idea for what. I could have enthusiastically committed to a music festival in Venezuela.

A little detective work and I'm starting to piece my evening back together.

I signed up for a murder mystery party, invited 14 people to dinner at mine this Sunday, and joined a philosophy breakfast club.

Apparently when blasted I know loads about free will and determinism, which is interesting, because when I'm sober I know nothing about them.

After extracting myself from the philosophy group, everything is just about under control. Until I receive another text.

It simply reads: "You were right. I booked the stripper!" Uh-oh.