When Natalie left, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a look of pity before rushing off for an appointment with her personal trainer, I removed your stilettos, covered you with a blanket and wiped the drool from your chin. Later, when you woke up screaming about a pain in your head which you assumed must be a brain haemorrhage, I gently explained that you had simply consumed an excessive amount of alcohol. I then sat by your side, holding your hand and stroking your forehead in a bid to reassure you. Three days later when you had recovered, I firmly reiterated this link between lager and suffering and said I hoped you had learnt your lesson. You looked ashamed, said you wouldn't do it again and then promptly went out and got wasted.
I'd secretly hoped that things would be better the next time Natalie came to visit. I thought she might like you better if you had your trousers on and were conscious. To be fair you didn't let me down on either of those counts, but if I'm going to be picky then I wish you'd been sober and hadn't vomited on her.