Saturday night was supposed to be a momentous occasion. My three closest friends in the world and I decided to have a night out with our partners all in tow - for the first time ever. But by the time it came round one of us was single, and with about a day to go, Gorgeous But Flaky Thespian Friend pulled out, claiming he had to work all weekend. Interesting to see that he still managed to be on Facebook at 4am on the night in question.
Still, it all started out really well, with much wine at the lovely Lady Handbag's house and then on to a tapas restaurant down in South London. As a rule I get a bit twitchy south of the river (not least because I can never bloody find anywhere down there - I once spent a memorable three hours trying to find one single street in Lewisham. That's what life was like pre-satnav).
And then we went on to a very nice bar... and here things get a bit hazy. But I do remember some beered up twat accusing me of spilling my drink over him (impossible because I didn't actually have one at the time, I was on my way to the bar). I heard him describe me to his friends as 'that fat woman' and I just crumpled inside. Desperate not to get myself into a drunken spiral of misery I decided not to tell anyone... but the seeds were sown and from that point onward I found myself getting increasingly upset about everything bad that's ever happened to me. Don't you just hate that?