At length, I began to recover from the night of goddess celebration– the burlesque hen night. Mad flashbacks of feathers and corsets and oogling passers-by as we roamed in laced-up-breathless wonder peppered the morning. The roving from tequila shot to tequila shot in Doncaster faded into legendary dream as I travelled back to Mansfield slumped in the back seat of the bride’s car dressed in slouchy jumper and baggy trousers. My headache still thumped to some phantom beat from an all but forgotten DJ. It was not until yestreen and the soft warmth of my front room that I began to feel like myself again.
-A.E. Wallace 2015