YOU think you might have had a good night, but until you satisfy these six questions your mind will be filled with fear, panic and paranoia.
Where am I?
Usually answered with a quick scan around. You definitely aren’t in your bedroom or uncomfortably stretched out on a recognisable park bench. You’re in a room, but that’s the extent of your knowledge. You can’t see any gimp masks and handcuffs lying around, so that’s a plus.
What’s the last thing I remember?
Fleeting flashbacks are unhelpful, as they stop at 9.30pm when you were regaling several people with an anecdote about a massively exaggerated sexual encounter. Some bloke seemed to have the hump with you, but you’d remember a fight, surely? It’s an alcohol blackout, not f**king Memento. But all you’ve retained is the memory of rounds of shots. Lots and lots of shots. After that, nothing. There may be some connection.
How did I get here?
Having established you’re in a strange place, your next question is: ‘How?’ It would help if you could look outside, but you don’t want to risk moving due to the nausea, bright light and fear. Maybe you were abducted by aliens and placed in a simulacrum of a human dwelling to study? That would be quite reassuring at this point.
Who’s he/she/them/that?
Sickening fear hits you as you realise you’re not alone. You have no recollection of meeting anyone, never mind copping off. You daren’t look because then you’ll know for sure. For all you know it could be an animal. Could you be pissed enough to have sex with a dog? No, these are ridiculous, paranoid thoughts. You’d have heard a ‘woof’ by now.
What should I be doing right now?
What time is it? In fact, what day is it? If it’s Monday you should be in work. If it’s Saturday you should be doing a big shop and bleeding radiators. You really need to synchronise yourself with reality. Despite the acrid coating of kebab juice in your mouth and churning in your stomach, you have a hankering for bacon. It must be Saturday.
What’s the damage?
You feel like Death not so much warmed up as suffering from gastroenteritis, and hopefully it’s not permanent. Your phone’s missing and when you try to get up it’s like being on a fairground waltzer ride. Anything could happen next: an attractive stranger coming back from the shop with breakfast; vomiting up stomach lining; discovering you somehow spent 300 quid last night. All you can say with certainty is it won’t be the first one.
