The worst thing about having my parents in town for Christmas was the hideous way the chance it gave fate to create situations I'd missed out on in my youth.
F'rintance, there I was one morning, happily finishing last night's boy when my parents turned up early.
How embarrassing - having to try and sneak out a shag without my parents noticing. Why did I give them keys? Why? We dressed and sat giggling on the bed. I popped out into the corridor to check the coast was clear. No.
"Hope it's okay," said shag, "I got nervous so I've lit a joint."
Oh god. Sex and drugs double-whammy horror. Please don't be pregnant, I thought as I ushered shag through the hall. I opened the front door - and there was my mother, scrubbing the front step. Bizarre. I didn't know I had a front step.
Her chit chat about emulsion vs eggshell tailed off suddenly as she realised I wasn't alone. "Oh," she said, darting poor shag a bitter glance, "hello."
We spent the rest of the day not talking about it. And then went out to supper, also not talking about it. Despite sitting next to a Lesbian Football Club Xmas Dinner.