Arriving late to a house party is a dislocating experience, like turning on a film near the end and trying to work out what’s been going on. And if this was any film, it was somewhere between Planet of the Apes and one of those bad American romcoms that goes straight to DVD.

One of the hosts – Kenny – was circling the kitchen, clutching his guitar, eyes rolled back in his head like an extra from Shaun of the Dead. A couple of pretty girls were sitting on the table watching him intently. He’s good looking, Kenny, in that sort of louche way that makes women think he needs rescuing. The other host appeared to be missing:

‘Where’s George?’

‘He’s run away’

‘Run away?’

‘Yep’

‘Why?’

‘He kissed someone he shouldn’t have’

‘Will he be back anytime soon?’

‘It’s hard to say, he’s not answering his phone’

I made my way to the drinks table, squeezing past two men doing a tango to the Glee soundtrack. The drinks table centrepiece, a mop bucket full of punch, and its clutch of accompanying bottles, were empty. So I found a Fosters under the table and opened that. I shouldn’t have. Beer does awful things to me, particularly when mixed with the new batch of punch that came into play at 3. The following morning I would feel like Steven Segal had repeatedly choke slammed me headfirst onto a concrete floor, filled my mouth with sand and then bounced up and down on my stomach for an hour.

Ten hours earlier, and happily oblivious to this, I sipped on my beer and tootled outside. A group of people were attempting to get hold of missing host.

‘Look, I think I can get through to him’ said one of the boys, pushing through and snatching up his phone, as if this was some sort of tense hostage negotiation. We all gathered around him:

‘Where are you, you absolute twat?…. no, she left….half an hour ago…. I’m sure…. she’s definitely not here……. no I’m not checking the house again…. alright, see you in a bit’

Assured that our host wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere, most of us headed inside to dance.

He returned to the doorstep a little later, looking a bit white in the face. We decided we’d get a better response from him in the morning and handed him a beer instead. One of the tangoing men began rolling him a cigarette. I took a handful of crisps and went over to chat with Ian, who I’d met earlier, and Mental Jen, a barmaid we met on a group holiday earlier in the year and collectively fell in love with.

By 3.30 the party began to thin out. Kenny had disappeared into his bedroom with one of the pretty girls and George, who had perked up, was now nose-to-nose by the window with another – it wasn’t clear if she was the one he shouldn’t have kissed, or a new one he was planning to. Someone turned the music back to Glee.

‘Really? Again? I think that’s my cue to go home’

‘May I have a dance before you go?’ said Ian

Five minutes of trying to teach Ian how to do a pancake turn later, I called goodbye to the remaining handful of revellers, with the exception of George who was now in a sofa-bound clinch with the girl from earlier.

Ian followed me to the doorway and caught me by the arm.

‘You’re a really special girl, you know that?’

And without warning he went in for a kiss. I attempted to turn this into a hug and he ended up licking my ear.

‘That’s awkward’ someone said within earshot. I didn’t wait to find out who it was and bolted out of the door.

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