It's 3am. There's a man sobbing in my bathroom, and an angry woman pounding on my door. How did we get here?
[names have been changed. To protect... well, me, I hope]
Previously... there's a drinks party round at my house. Brad and Angelina are the last to go. They are not a couple, but both are very drunk. They have started dancing, but haven't noticed the stereo has been playing the same track for half an hour.
They are singing along. Or howling at the moon. It's hard to decide which, but I'm now tired and sober, and had just had to explain to a leaving guest that when Brad said "Goodbye then, you bitch, you whore, you c-" he was being funny.
Priggishly, I go to bed, taking a pillow from the sofa with me. "Oh," says Ange, "Is that for you to bite on?" She then roars with laughter.
A few minutes later I'm woken by a phone call. "Help me!" whispers Brad. "She wants to sleep with me. I'm very drunk and I don't know what to do."
"You've made your bed," I announce, "You're going to have to lie in it."
"She's in the loo. I'm scared what'll happen when she gets back. Please..."
"Come and hide in my bathroom. I'll tell her you're feeling ill. It should be fine."
Minutes later, Ange is pounding on my bedroom door, demanding Brad. I explain the situation - that he is being sick in my bathroom, and from the sounds of it, he doesn't want company. Ange storms in, and rattles the bathroom door. Brad hasn't locked it - and it's thrown open to reveal Brad sat cross-legged on the floor, reading The Guardian and smoking, while making retching noises.
"eur... eurch... yeurch ... oh god, i wanna die... eur... oh. hello." he says.