Brave the Party

Okay, you walk into the front room and try your best, even though the two halves of your face feel like they’re slipping away from each other, like cliffs into the sea, even though you can smell yourself, even though the volume of liquid you have taken on today means you need the bathroom, again, already, seconds after exiting the bathroom. The vibe in here is very "tranquil people stood up and gently laughing". The vibe in here is very "if someone sat down at a piano and started earnestly reciting at it, that wouldn’t be too out of order". The vibe in here is very "have a nut".

You end up cornered by a couple who are telling you about the dress one of them is wearing – “She made it herself”, they say, drinking wine out of actual glasses (all the wine glasses here match; none of them are the same as those three IKEA ones you have at home, since you broke the other one in the four-pack; nobody is drinking out of an old Nutella jar, not even one person), and every time you speak for more than ten seconds they both punctuate it by nodding and purring “ fascinating”. This isn’t your vibe. A lad called "Ollie" in horn-rimmed spectacles made everyone hush and be quiet so he could recite a poem from memory. The host keeps going to the kitchen to make blinis. Nobody here watched Love Island.

Soon, you tire of being at a party that feels palpably like class warfare and make your excuses to leave. “Sorry, I really have to go,” you whisper to the host, as they stand at their kitchen island and push candles into a birthday cake they got from Harrods Food Hall. “I, err—“ you didn’t think of an excuse, did you? “I, uh. Think one of those oysters I shucked was bad. I’m going to go to home, figure it out there.” They pack you up a Tupperware of arancini balls you end up taking to work for lunch with you for three more days, and say: of course, of course, air kisses on the way out, you really must come over for supper soon.

Unfriend them on Facebook in the Uber home, mate. These might have been your people once, but they’re not anymore.

YOU HAVEN’T EXACTLY WON OR LOST SATURDAY NIGHT, BUT YOU WAKE UP TOMORROW AND SOME LAD CALLED 'LUDO' IS ON YOUR WHATSAPP SAYING, 'ARE YOU STILL UP FOR COURCHEVEL, THEN? THE CREW’S HEADING OUT THERE NEXT SATURDAY, OI OI!' AND YOU JUST HAVE TO TURN YOUR PHONE OFF AND PRETEND YOU LOST IT