Another swinging London house party, and this time it was actually a housewarming.
The doors were opened wide to the South London party people, causing great excitement. I necked several pills in celebration, which made me go all wobbly.
After they had really kicked in, I got it into my head that people needed a tour of the house, a suggestion which seemed to amuse and engage the party guests no end.
“Come and look at the living room!” I managed and “Check out the downstairs toilet!”
But it was only when I came to showing them my bedroom that I realised something was wrong with the door.
I kept trying to get the door open but it was jammed or something. And even when it was finally open, there seemed to be something wrong with the room.
By this time, a big crowd had gathered, laughing and pointing. Some of them were taking photos.
It was about then that the hallucinatory rush of the pills suddenly ebbed to reveal an awful truth.
It wasn’t my bedroom door I was opening at all: it was the microwave door in the kitchen.
And it wasn’t even my house- it was a friend of a friend’s, who was looking at me with real annoyance and deciding whether she ought to just throw me out now or wait until I had recovered enough to find the nearest tube station.