I woke up on Sunday morning in a strange house, with a band-aid on one finger and tomato sauce all over my white t-shirt. Thankfully while the house may have been strange to me, it didn’t belong to a stranger so at least I didn’t have to worry about having the: “Ah, so what’s your name again?” conversation. Admit it, we’ve all done it but I guess only a few of us own up to it. Plus, I still had all my clothes on which, again, was another massive bonus all things considered.

On first glance at my shirt and band-aided finger I did think that I must have cut myself quite badly to have leaked so much red stuff all over my clothing. However, when I very classily lifted up my shirt and gave it a bit of sniff, there was the distinct smell of sauce, and perhaps even a hint of gherkin. Indeed when I looked around the room I saw the guilty culprit within but a second – an empty McDonalds bag (yes, bag, I had bought more than one burger it seemed) on the floor which had been ripped to shreds by some ravenous nightmarish creature.

I was feeling a little confused so I asked my friend who had kindly provided me with a bed for the night what I did to my finger? And also, just how many burgers did I eat because you are a vegetarian? The answer to the second question was three. The answer to the first was a little more complex.

You see Friday night drinks had turned into Saturday late morning drinks in Kangaroo Point. I, unlike some others present that fateful day, had a least gone to bed on Friday night. In fact, I am such a super-star (in my own mind) that I actually gave a half an hour presentation on the state of the economy at 9am on Saturday morning. Yes, I can’t quite believe I managed that either.

But it only took one text message of a handful of words from my brother for me to drop everything and meet him in Kangaroo Point at approximately 10.59am. We had had news the day before which wasn’t great you see so we decided to cope in the “Australian-way” and completely and utterly write ourselves off. It seems we have many friends who also like to do such things (bad news or no) as by mid-afternoon we had gathered a fabulous menagerie of people intent on doing their best interpretations of Hunter S Thompson (God rest his twisted, wonderful soul – the bat image above is for you buddy).

Things got quite, ah, loose as the day progressed and I remember at one stage cornering a tableful of unfortunate blokes and regaling them with all my best anecdotes and funny faces. They seemed to enjoy it though and I do vaguely remember an offer of marriage somewhere along the line.

But when it comes down to it, I am nearly 40 (thanks to everyone who agreed with me on Saturday that I don’t look it) and by 8.30pm it was time to pass out… ah I mean, sleep. And obviously lots and lots of McDonalds. We caught a mini-van back to my friend’s place (I’m not too sure why as she just lives up the road from me) and it was while I was in this moving vehicle that my injury took place. I didn’t put on my seat-belt (which is horribly unusual for me and goes to show how under the weather I must have been) and when the driver went around a corner, I fell off my seat, burger in hand, and landed kind-of head-first in that stair-well bit of the van. The burger, and its lashes of sauce, made friends with my white shirt, I cut my finger, hit my head, scraped my arm and gave my friend quite a bit of a fright. Sorry about that again love.

But I survived, cut finger and fairly momentous hangover and all. And if I had to suggest a moral for this wayward story it would be: Always wear your seatbelt kids. And never ever wear a white shirt when you are drunk and devouring McDonalds. Lessons learned me thinks. Well, until next time.

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