The following morning, Celia and I both stumbled out of bed at exactly the same time, midday. Passing each other on the landing we staggered to the bathroom where we held a lot of porcelain. Obviously we didn't speak. Finally we tottered downstairs, still with no words having been exchanged, just the occasional groan, clutching one another. There, at the bottom of the stairs, an extraordinary sight met our eyes. Stopped us in our tremulous tracks. We swayed gently on the Cornish slate floor, in our bare feet, strappy tops and PJ bottoms, surveying the chaotic scene beyond in the kitchen.

“Blimey,” Celia finally said, faintly. "Have we been burgled?"

Every kitchen drawer was open, every cupboard door flung wide: dirty pans and plates tottered at a precarious, uneasy angle in a pagoda in the sink, and every work surface was covered with empty packets of foodstuffs, mostly of the artery-clogging, fry-able kind.

"Wait." I put an unsteady hand to my head, which was throbbing dully. "It's all coming back to me." I tottered to sit on a stool at the bar, clutching the furniture en route. "When I got in, you were busy eating your own bodyweight in breakfast fare. There were eggs and sausages and bacon sizzling in every pan."

“That's it," she agreed, remembering. She groped her way to sit beside me. "And you joined in."

"I was starving," I told her in surprise. “Really ravenous. And I'd been out to dinner."

“That's what happens," she told me gravely, "when you dabble in illicit substances."

“Ah." I nodded. "Yes, of course." I paused nervously. Some of the highlights of my evening were returning rather too vividly and gloriously. “Did . . . Ted drop me off?" I hazarded.

"He did."

"And was I . . . you know . . . OK?" I asked anxiously.

“Define OK."

"I mean, did I . . . you know – comport myself, um, decorously?"

"I think you made your intentions pretty clear when you invited him for a naked swim."

I put my head in my hands and moaned low.

"Oh, don't worry, he knew you were out of it. He disentangled himself from your clammy clutches and bid us a cheery goodnight."

"Right." I raised my head. “Super cool, then."

"Well, not you."

“No. Quite."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry. You've lost none of your allure." Was there an edge to her voice? I couldn't tell. "He seemed pretty taken with you, if you ask me." She heaved a great sigh up from her bare toes.

I regarded her in alarm. "Cele, if you've changed your—"

“No. Hundred percent haven't. Just got a thumping headache.” She gazed bleakly around the kitchen. “Bacon and eggs?”

I gave the greasy mess a considering look. “D’you know, weirdly, yes. Should we wash the pans first?”

"I think that would elevate us from the student gutter to the more mature, scatty artist level."

We pottered about gingerly, slowly clearing up the kitchen. I turned the radio on very low, but Celia turned it off again.