The single girl at a wedding.

Where better to restart than what can only be described as my friends favourite escaped. Now, whilst this isn't a tale or sex and sluttery, it is both hilarious and horrifying (for me, horrifying for me. Everyone else thinks it is marvellous).

It was a few months ago now, yet i am still traumatised by what unfolded at the family wedding I had been dreading for months. My dreadful cousin, who I have never particularly liked, was getting married and I was, surprise surprise, single. Once the horror of RSVPing to my 'plus 1' invite with a 'just me!' note attached had subsided I came to the realisation that the only way I was gonna survive that day was by looking drop dead gorgeous and getting absolutely steaming. And that's exactly what I did.

The big day had finally arrived and my dress was fabulous. My shoes; amazing. My hair; well, it was one of those rare days when everything just goes right for you. I should have fucking known karma was brewing a special load of ridiculousness for me. Even the sight of my bitch of a cousin looking stunning didn't ruin my mood! I was hot, single, and there were a lot of groomsmen. Cock. Fest. Therefore, when we arrived at the golf club to a champagne reception I grabbed a glass and got stuck in mingling with the bridal party. I think it was prosecco actually; my uncle is as tight as a ducks arse you see, and it went down far too easily. Four glasses later they were ready for us to take our seats and I definitely needed mine. I decided, after taking three attempts to focus my vision to read my name card at my seat, that I'd better be sensible and pace myself for a while. I even intended to swerve the unlimited supply of wine at the table and genuinely believed myself right up until the rest of my table took their seats. There were my parents and younger brother (not so bad as they're wine-o's like me), my hipster cousin who I hadn't seen in years and wanted to discuss Syrian liberation (snore!) and uncle knob head with his latest fling. It was she, common as muck and insisting we were SO similar, that tipped it for me. 30 seconds of her telling me it was freaky how much we had in common was enough for me to take the bottle of Pinot from the centre of the table and fill my glass, to the brim, and place the remaining juice next to it.

I was thoroughly entertained for the rest of the evening, in my drunken state, particularly when uncle knob head told my 18 year old brothers girlfriend he would have 'given her one' had he been 20 years younger; this gap in age didn't faze him for too long however as shortly after he thought it appropriate to hump her thigh, much to my amusement. Anyway, this is all irrelevant. You get this picture; family wedding, single lonely girl, fabulously expensive satin dress and free wine.

After the meal the groomsmen all seemed for than happy to keep me entertained, and the black sambuca flowed! For fucks sake though, why is it always black? I think each thought they were getting lucky with me, and if what I tell you next hadn't happened, they ALL probably would have. However, nobody got any of me that night. The last thing I remember, and this is very important, is downing 2 black sambucas and a pint of Carling with an ex-marine at the bar, then running straight for the loo.

Some time later (I say this as we still down know exactly how long) I woke up in a black box. Yes, you read that right. A box. I was sat on the floor of said box, designer heels still on and digging into my thigh, in complete darkness. Confused, drunk and a little bit panicked I proceeded to bang of the sides of the box, crying for help; alarm bells were sounding in my head. Had I died? Had I been buried alive? Had I been kidnapped? Why did I never make friends with Liam Neeson?! Why was there a toilet in the box with me? Wait.. what? I felt around; it was definitely a toilet. And opposite it a door. To a cubicle. I was in a toilet cubicle in the golf club. But why had the lights gone out? As soon as I opened the cubicle door alarms began to sound. And not just in my head; this time the alarms were real and loud and most probably waking up half the neighbourhood as I stood there, drunk. What's a girl to do when she's passed out in a toilet, been forgotten about and locked in golf club over night? Run of course! And run I did, to every door I could find, all of which were obviously locked. However even after shit loads of alcohol this girl still has her head screwed on and I knew where I could escape. I shoved the bar and flew straight out of the fire exit and across the golf course. I was a fugitive, on the run from the law and probably very angry owner. I knew it was only a matter of time before the police showed up, thinking somebody had broken in (when I had in fact broken out). I finally made it back to my house, keyless, and with nothing left to lose broke into my neighbours back garden, scaled the 6ft fence in my satin dress and ended my night sat on my mums back lawn throwing pebbles at her bedroom window, hoping to arouse them.

To this day I still question why the bar staff didn't check the toilets before locking up. That is when i let myself think about that very humiliating night. Wanna hear the best part of it all? A friend of a friend works there and has seen the whole thing on CCTV. Fucking cringe.

Pause: my wardrobe has grown

No longer a student. No longer have free time to write about sex. No longer on 27.

Since my last post in 2011 I have graduated, wiped my laptop and slept. And not alone. So, in an attempt to continue this blog, I am re-writing my list of conquests. I am also realising that the copious volumes of vodka I consumed whilst at uni may have had a greater effect on my brain than I had originally anticipated; I cannot remember how many notches there should be on my bedposts. Awkward, right?

I've text a few of my friends in the hope that they might remember a few names that have sank in the sambuca that's flooded my head too frequently of late, however I'm still waiting for replies. I tried scouring my facebook photos in the hope that the flash of a face might awaken some memories... and then I was reminded of the school girl fancy dress nights and times I crawled home in flat shoes and decided maybe that chapter of my life is better left forgotten.

Luckily enough for you fine ladies I have since made plenty more memories and mistakes which are all entertaining, embarrassing and down right dirty. So in true fashionista style I now have more than 27 dresses, most of which have only been worn once, and too many I can look back on and think 'oh god why'.

Please, enjoy!