DATE.

This is precisely the kind of silly, drunken declaration I should be avoiding at my old age.

As I sit, I move my head from side to side, simultaneously trying to relieve my headache and remember the last date I went on.

The sad fact is that I have only ever had one boyfriend worthy of the title, and it didn’t exactly work out very well. Sam, my first and only love and one-time best friend, utterly broke my heart.

I can’t help the sigh that escapes.

There are many issues with being hungover, but one of the worst is that it makes everything so much more sad, and my memories of Sam are interwoven with a whole load of other memories and feelings. Memories and feelings I try not to feel when I have to be sociable any time soon.

A knock on the door is a welcome interruption.

I look at the time and realize I’ve been sitting on the loo for fifteen minutes with only my sad thoughts and pale thighs for company.

I make myself as decent as possible in my delicate state and open the door. Why are there so many locks?

‘Rise and shine, it’s breakfast time!’

Christ alive. Too much. Too soon. Too early.

Adjusting my eyes to the outside world, or at least the world beyond my bedroom and into the hotel hallway, I see Peter standing with a grin across his face and—

‘Are those hash browns?’

‘Yes, and some orange juice. I thought you might need them if you were going to make it to breakfast.’

‘Thank you so much.’ I grab the plate of hash browns and, knowing Peter’s presence is part of the package, open the door wide enough to let him in. I bury the vague memory I have of stepping towards him for a kiss. I wish alcohol didn’t make me so stupid. Or so hungover.

‘It was no problem. The kitchen ladies are extremely kind.’ He enters the room, shuts the door and plonks himself on the bed. The kitchen ladies are not extremely kind, but Peter has a way with people.

I feel better already and I’ve only smelt the salty starches.

‘Now hurry up. I should have some fresh pancakes ready for me in fifteen minutes.’ Peter winks and I shuffle to the bathroom, clutching at the last of the hash browns and the remainder of my soul.

Thirteen minutes later, Peter barges in and leans against the door-frame.

‘That’s a bit intense.’

‘Huh?’ My face? My outfit? His entrance?

‘The message in aggressive red caps.’ He points to the mirror, cup of tea in hand. I assume he made it using the weird hotel kettle, the type I never really trust.

DATE.

I can’t help but grimace.

‘Ah yes. I remember now. Your New Year’s resolution.’

‘It’s not a resolution. People always break resolutions. I am not a resolution person.’

He raises his eyebrows and eyes me with scepticism. ‘Well, you came up with an intention for the new year. I would say that is a resolution.’