On shaking legs, now clad in yesterday’s leggings, the plasticky fabric clinging uncomfortably to my clammy skin, I gently push open the bedroom door and venture out into the hallway. The murmur of low voices wafts up the stairs towards me, uncertainty making me waver on the landing, not wanting to go and face whoever is down there. At least now though, I have some idea of who it will be – a family portrait hangs at the top of the stairs, and I recognise the tiled hallway and stained-glass windows of the front door below. It’s a house that I’ve only ever visited occasionally, and I’ve never ventured upstairs, which goes a long way towards explaining why I was confused when I woke up this morning. White Christmas lights glitter around the front door, and the scent of pine from the Christmas garland that circles the banister catches at the back of my throat. A tacky silver banner hangs drunkenly across the wall of the entrance hall, loudly proclaiming for all to have a ‘Happy New Year’. The glitter of the lights makes me dizzy and I squeese my eyes closed for a moment, gripped by vertigo, certain I am about to lose my footing and tumble down the stairs. The dizziness passes, and slowly I make my descent, one hand brushing the wall to keep my balance, as I still feel ridiculously hungover – more than I would ever have expected, the insistent throbbing in my temples making me long for my own bed, and the safe comfort of my own home. My silver sandals dangle from the other hand, found in the opposite corner of the bedroom much to my relief, although I think I would have walked barefoot if necessary.