The Slippery Nipple (2)

On my 32nd birthday, which happened to be a Friday, I took the rare opportunity to invite any nearby friends and half of the office to come out and celebrate with me.

As I was inviting half of the people from the office, I felt obliged to invite everyone, including a couple of people who I had hoped would turn down the invite, but unfortunately didn't. How was I supposed to let my hair down with my boss and his wife lurking in the background?

The evening was to start with a bite to eat in a trendy bar in Hertford, followed by drinks for as long as anyone wanted to stay.

My chosen look for the evening was going to be trendy: Black trousers, black halter-neck top, silver chain belt, chunky silver necklace, bracelet and earrings, black heels. Hair short and spiky. I looked good. I looked skinny. I looked like The Party Girl. Bring it on.

The party kicked off a little later than expected, and by the time people started to show up I had eaten some walnut bread to keep me going, and to soak up the first Vodka and Coke of the evening.

When the first friend arrived he asked "What are you drinking?" and that was the last moment of the evening that I mentioned the word vodka. Everyone who turned up after this came to say Hello carrying a new vodka: Vodka and Orange, Vodka and Coke, Vodka and Tonic. The word had got round that I was drinking vodka, and who was I to be rude and turn down a drink? Especially considering that nobody appeared interested in ordering any food - and after a couple of drinks in quick succession I was too drunk to be interested in food either.

But I wasn't too drunk to notice that my halter-neck top - which was matt black cotton-lycra with "secret support" was continually doing its best to head south. The broad elastic band kept sliding down my ribs, elongating the stretchy halter-neck straps in to thin strips. I couldn't seem to go ten minutes without hitching the top up one side and then the other. But at least I had the wherewithal to hitch it. Ha! I can handle my drink!

At 11pm the bar closed and we made our way to another bar that closed at midnight. To say that I was drunk was a little bit of an understatement *hitch*hitch*. One of my friends then decided to break the run of vodkas and ordered me a Lavender Aftershock (equal measures of red (Cinnamon) and blue (Mint) Aftershock). He warned me not to drink it all, but before I knew it, the glass was empty. How did that happen? *hitch*hitch* Someone then bought me a glass of water, which I knocked off the side with my elbow and turned round completely oblivious at the sound of the glass breaking all over the floor *hitch*hitch*

At the end of the night, another of my friends (the eBay Queen, pre-twins) asked me how I was getting home.

"Cab" I said, aimlessly pointing to where the taxi rank could have been.

"Do you have one booked?" she asked

"'shover there, shumwhere" I replied.

"Yes, but do you have one booked?"

Once I understood the question, I shook my head *hitch* hitch*

"Right, come on, we'll give you a lift"

The apartment I was renting was in an old building centred around a courtyard. At that time, there were three enormous workman's holes at the entrance to the car park, barricaded off with bright orange cones and florescent barriers. My friends parked up where they could easily turn round and we chatted for at least half an hour - the main subject being whether I had offended anyone during the evening or done anything which might become office gossip. I really couldn't remember, but apparently I'd managed to escape humiliating myself despite being ten times more plastered than anyone else there.

Finally I got out of the car, swung my bag over my shoulder, and tottered towards the front of the building, narrowly missing falling straight in to one of the barricaded pits. Coo, that was close. I regained my balance and my friend's husband put the car headlights on full beam. How kind, I thought. I turned round and gave them a big wave: I'm fine! Really! I turned back round and swaggered off, round the front of the building, up the stairs and in to my apartment.

Wow, I was busting for a wee... quick get to the bathroom... oo, what relief! That's better!

As I stood to try and drag up my trousers, I caught sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror and froze in horror. The halter-neck top had twisted sideways and there I stood completely exposed - on full beam. No way! How did that happen? Or more importantly when did that happen? Surely this had happened only when I got in to the bathroom? Yes, it must have done. Maybe the dash in getting to the loo.... I couldn't remember. Crap.

I sent a text to my friend. When you left me, were my nipples showing?

Thirty seconds later, she responded. I cringed as I read her reply: Yep. Still laffin'

Thankfully I had managed to keep myself decent throughout the evening, and my top had slipped when I had thrown my bag over my shoulder as I clambered out of the car. Hence the full beam. My friend had laughed so hard on the way home that she had nearly wet herself and had to beg her husband to slow down over the speed bumps.

Practical joker that she is, she wasn't going to tell me what had happened, but wanted to see whether I 'noticed first'. Ah, a little bit of humility. We still cry with laughter every time the story is told.

I can wish that I had not been so drunk - blame the vodka, or that I had chosen a different outfit for the evening - blame the halter-neck top.

But deep down in my heart, I blame the slippery nipples.

The Slippery Nipple (1)

Twenty years ago I had just left home. For the first time in my life I didn't have to report to anybody, I wasn't being watched, I didn't have to explain my whereabouts - I was a free agent. Bliss. Kind of. Because I don't really remember taking full advantage of my new situation at all.

Theoretically speaking, given my restricted teenage years, I should have completely gone off the rails: a wild child, drinking and clubbing and following a life of debauchery. But hey, I like to buck the trend. I am wild... in my own way.

My tolerance for alcohol back then was several shades higher than it is now (which, to be honest, isn't difficult given that my current tolerance is limited to sniffing a glass of wine before passing out). My favourite tipple at the time was Southern Comfort and Coke, or various cocktails gulped through a straw at Miss Pears. The evening was always started off with downing a 'Slippery Nipple' (Baileys and Sambuca), followed by multiple SC&Cs, and then usually a decision was made to either go clubbing, or head to Miss Pears.

Despite my evident tolerance for alcohol, I don't remember going out that often and hence can be classed as a binge drinker by today's standards. Or maybe I just don't remember how often I went out... it's all a bit of a blur.

One night that stands out clearly in my mind was the only night that I ever had a brush with the law (with the exception of kissing a policeman on New Year's Eve). My landlady and drinking partner, Shaz, and I went in to town on a school-night for a 'quick drink'. One quick drink (Slippery Nipple) followed another and before I knew it I was shaking my booty rather wonkily on the dance floor at Shanghai Sam's nightclub.

As usual, by the time we left the club, my feet were killing me. I think I had blisters on my blisters which were not being numbed by the copious amounts of alcohol consumed during the evening. I limped and scraped and moaned - we didn't have that far to walk home.

And then Shaz spotted the shopping trolley and had a Bright Idea.

Shaz: "Quick! Jump in the trolley! I'll push you home!"

Me: "Are you sure you won't tip me out?"

She grabbed a nearby traffic cone. "Wear this on your head and then you'll be safe"

What a fab idea. I hitched up my already short skirt, hiked one leg in to the trolley, then the other, removed my shoes with a sigh of relief, and donned my protective head-gear. Shaz started to push me as fast as she could go. Or at least it felt fast to my inebriated brain.

We had only gone 50 yards or so when a car pulled up alongside us. Oh. It was a white car with florescent stripes and blue lights on the top. Oh, it's a policeman and he's getting out. But he's smiling, which is a good thing. Or rather, smiling but desperately trying to keep a straight face.

"Good morning ladies" he said rather formally (as far as I was concerned we were still on the night before) "Could you please get out of the trolley - it's not safe".

Me: "Oh but we're being safe, Officer. That's why I've got this cone on my head"

He stifled a laugh and then regained his composure.

Policeman: "I won't ask a second time. Where did you get the trolley? Did you steal it from Tesco?"

Me: "No, no! We just found it! We didn't steal anything! Honest! We would have taken it back!"

He sighed. "I won't ask a second time - please get out of the trolley. Where are you going?"

We told him. It wasn't far to walk, we said, we'll be fine. I clambered out of the trolley, displaying far more than he really needed to see, jammed my shoes painfully back on to my feet and started to hobble home.

He got in to his car and drove ahead of us, towards a bend in the road which lead to a small roundabout. Shaz started to commentate his departure: "He's goinnng... he's goinnng.... he's goinnng.... he'sgoinghe'sgoinghe'sgoinghe'sgoing......HE'S GONE! Quick! Back in the trolley!"

We legged the twenty yards or so back to the trolley and I clambered back in, cone firmly planted back on my head, shoes blissfully once again removed from my feet.

And he had gone. That is, he had gone, until he turned round at the roundabout and came back again. They're a suspicious bunch, the police. And strangely enough on that short journey he seemed to have totally lost his sense of humour too.

This time he didn't ask me to get out of the trolley, he asked us whether we would like to spend a night in the cells instead. Party Pooper. I was tempted, purely to trade the pain of walking home with a ride in a nice warm car. But we declined his offer. I clambered out of the trolley, displaying for a second time everything that I had to offer, and he watched as we crossed the road and disappeared out of sight.

Of course, I could say that none of this was my fault - it was after all not my idea to ride in the trolley or wear a traffic cone on my head. But I can't blame Shaz either.

So I think I am left with little option - I'll have to blame the Slippery Nipple.