The Party

After what can only be described as a Grade A dumpster fire of a few months (cheers, failed marriage!), I was determined to make New Year’s Eve my comeback tour. New year, new me, and all that sparkly nonsense. I slapped on some lipstick, poured myself into something vaguely glittery, and prepped for a night out with friends, armed with blind optimism and a solid amount of prosecco.

Enter: The Party.

Now, I wasn’t expecting anything wild, just drinks, laughs, and maybe a dramatic "New Year, New Trauma" cry in the loo. But as I sipped (read: downed) my fourth tequila, I spotted him. Leaning in the corner like a moody Greek god doing casual brooding: tall-ish, broad shoulders, blue eyes that screamed “trouble,” and tattoos that probably had stories.

Fuelled by liquid courage and a questionable sense of judgment, I staggered—glided, let’s say—over and struck up a convo. Before I knew it, we were locked in a cheeky snog, the kind that makes your mates cheer and/or judge you silently.

Fast forward to the end of the night. We were deep in one of those late-night chats where you’re not sure if you’re solving world peace or just ranking crisp flavours. The lights came on (rude), and he casually turned to a mate and said, “Mind if I kip on the sofa?”

Without a single thought, and apparently zero filter, I blurted -loudly-“No, you’re coming home with me.”

Cue: stunned silence. A full room of people paused mid-jacket-putting-on. The bloke looked like someone had hit him with a tranquilizer dart. Absolute deer in headlights. And me? Smiling like I’d just won a raffle I didn’t enter.

And that, dear friends, is how my one-night stand turned into a seven-year stand-up comedy show disguised as a relationship. Still going strong. Still can’t believe he didn’t run.