As those of you riveted by the minutiae of my life will recall, I’ve always been self-employed, which means the working week was seven days long, including New Year’s Day, Christmas Day, and every day in between. The pursuit of perfection, alas, is endless.
There were few weekends that didn’t find me in the office, but one exception was my birthday in 1992, when my beau and I decided to head to London for a rave, our ecstasy pills clutched in our hot little fists.
We always purchased from a reputable source and carried our E with us, rather than buying them in a club where you never know what you're getting. This was in days of yore before humanity took leave of its senses, and one could board an aeroplane without first being required to remove one's clothing and submit to a cavity search.
We stayed at the Park Tower Hotel in Knightsbridge, because money's no object when it comes to my comfort.
On Friday evening, we took the E ready to dance the night away and the next thing we knew, we woke up in bed, fully clothed. Had we even made it out? Apparently not. We’d fallen asleep. Wow, we thought, how tired we must have been.
Fast-forward to Saturday night: same pills, same plan, same result. We woke up on Sunday morning just in time to catch our flight home.
Turned out our ecstasy pills were some sort of tranquilliser that knocked us out cold for twelve hours at a time.
What could we do but laugh?
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Posted in response to galenkp's weekend experience
prompt asking 'Tell us about the funniest weekend you've experienced.
The images are mine
