I didn’t even tell him how I feel. This was one thing I needed to do well and I did it very badly. I did it so badly I didn’t do it at all.

Don’t panic. Just think. What do I remember? Be calm. It’s important to be calm. Follow the breadcrumbs. I remember bringing burritos. I remember him touching my hair. I remember him telling me I looked good in Lycra.

I remember kissing him.

I remember him leading me into the bedroom.

Oh God, my head hurts.

I remember some limbs. I remember undressing. I remember undressing and, oh God, telling him I wasn’t toned.

I am not toned. I meant to get toned, but I like cookies and chicken too much. I’m sorry.

Oh fuck. Why do I insist on shitting everything up? What the fuck is my problem? Why did I put him in this position?

I don’t feel well. I feel bad. I need to feel better. I need to rewind time and act like an adult. I also need a sausage sandwich. A sausage sandwich will make me feel better. I wonder what vegans eat when they’re hungover? That is not a helpful thought.

I really need a sausage sandwich.

Or maybe I need to be sick.

I definitely need to get out of here before I make it worse.

I turn over. Peter’s side of the bed is ruffled, but empty. He’s gone. The clock, the same crappy one he’s had since I first met him, tells me it’s 8.42 a.m. Oh God, why is it still so early? I already want this day to be over.

I sit up. I’m glad he isn’t here to see this. I can’t imagine I’m looking my best.

Vertical is definitely worse than horizontal, so I stay still for a while in an effort to stop the nausea.

What have I done? Why did I do this?

What if he left because he didn’t want to see me either? What if I made such an arse out of myself that he couldn’t bear to look at me? Have I finally done enough to make Peter, who is comfortable around anyone, stop talking to me? I am an awful human being.

I struggle out of bed. I spot a couple of random bruises on my legs, but I can see both of my shoes, which is a win, and all of my clothes. Some kind of grumbling noise escapes from me.

I don’t want to put the horrible plasticky Lycra back on. Being that shiny and skin-tight was OK last night, but in the cold light of day it further highlights my shame. Peter’s neighbour is probably camping by her window, waiting for his inappropriate guest to reappear in yesterday’s clothes.

It really can’t get much worse, so I borrow one of Peter’s jumpers. It will cover most of what is indecent (at least on the outside), and paired with the cheap Lycra leggings, my outfit could look like a fashion choice instead of a hen party hangover. I tell myself that I’ll wash the jumper and send it back.