Blonde's Eye View: The grip of the veggies

There was alcohol, and music, and dodgy dancing, and gossip, and lots of other mildly entertaining things I could have been doing.

But there I was, balancing someone else's baby on my knee and talking about low carb cauliflower couscous. Shoot me now.

I don't want to be organic broccoli lady.

She's from the same twisted family that spawned "new washing machine woman" and "interest rate mortgage lender guy". No-one wants to go to the pub with them.

If I'd wanted to prove my unutterable dullness I should have just kept the child I was holding, and posted endless photos of it on Facebook.

It's like I closed my eyes for a second and misplaced my life. I could have been talking about anything: Syria, Mitt Romney, the finer intricacies of Gangnam Style.

But no, I pulled from the greater depths of my cultural conscious: locally sourced, responsibly grown carrots. In a delivery box, no less.

Watch this space, next I'll be droning on about getting an allotment and growing the buggers.

I took immediate steps to rectify the situation - I thrust the baby back into its mother's arms. (She was not best pleased, as she'd been enjoying a large glass of Pinot Grigio at the time.)

I then informed the group all talk of Swiss chard would cease, and I was ordering a round of Sambucas.

Because, as we all know, nothing says young, carefree and totally unorganic than a raging hangover. Pass the beetroot juice, please.

Find Angela on twitter: @TheAngelaClarke