"That was some party," I mused, surveying the wreckage. Tables and chairs, overturned, glasses shattered, fallen bottles still leaking their sticky contents into the shagpile rug. There appeared to be a crudely drawn moustache on my portrait above the fireplace and someone had been sick in the aquarium.
"It's going to be quite a long day for you," I said to the Maid. "You'd best get started."
I sat and watched as she resignedly began to pick the cigarette butts out of the foie gras. Fuck me, but that was a humdinger of a brawl, last night.
It had all started so well. A select gathering. A few drinkies. A bit of chit chat, the chink of glasses. Very pleasant. Then someone said something about someone else being a clueless wanker and before I could say "mind the vol au vents" I was wearing a bowl of sherry trifle and grinding Quavers into somebody's hair.
Fucking Book Club.