Hammock Fiasco

Your twenties. That glittery wasteland of questionable decisions, emotional hangovers, and the occasional blackout that ends with you waking up next to a traffic cone. Or was that just me?

Let me take you back to a particular weekend in my mid-twenties – an era in which I was, for lack of a better phrase, a human hurricane in heels. I partied like a minor royal, made decisions with the kind of reckless abandon that would make a Love Island contestant look reserved, and had the attention span of a squirrel on espresso.

It was a Friday night – always a dangerous starting point – and I’d gone out with no plan beyond “Let’s see where the night takes us,” which, in my case, was almost always somewhere mildly disastrous. Several cocktails in, I met a couple of guys. We laughed, we danced, I probably yelled “TUNE!” every time a song came on, and somewhere in the haze, I apparently invited them to my friend’s birthday party. At our house. The next day.

Saturday morning: I’m in the kitchen nursing what can only be described as a medieval-style hangover. You know the kind – one eye twitching, toast feels like a risky choice, and you’re pretty sure you’re still legally drunk. I turned to my mate and casually dropped the bomb: “By the way, I invited a couple of guys to your birthday tonight.”

She stopped buttering her crumpet. “What guys?”

I had no idea. I couldn't remember their names, what they looked like, or why I thought it was a good idea. All I knew was they were coming. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and pure disdain, like I’d just announced I’d adopted a raccoon. Fair enough.

Cut to that evening. The doorbell rang. My stomach dropped. Who were these people? I opened the door with the cautious optimism of someone defusing a bomb. And there they were – the “randos” from the night before. One of them was, I must admit, ridiculously cute. Like, unfairly so. The kind of cute that makes you question your life choices while also wanting to make more bad ones.

They came in, we cracked open drinks, the party got going. So far, so moderately successful.

At some point, full of gin and poor judgment, I dragged Cute Rando out into the garden. There was a hammock. (Of course there was a hammock. Every bad decision in my twenties was cushioned by cheap alcohol and novelty furniture.)

Now, I’ll admit – I was not exactly tuned in to the subtle art of reading the room. Or in this case, reading the man. He was a bit hesitant, but I was already in horny, drunk mode. One thing led to another (I’ll spare you the toe-curling details), and there we were, having a very drunken fumble in said hammock. Romantic, no. Memorable? Tragically, yes.

We stumbled back inside, trying to act natural, which was impossible given I had my shirt on inside out, my hair doing its best impression of a hedge, and a room full of people staring at us like we’d just walked in wearing matching “WE JUST DID IT” T-shirts. The guys quickly made their excuses and bolted, clearly realising they’d stumbled into a sitcom pilot.

The next morning, curiosity (and shame) led me back out to the garden. There, in the hammock, was a collection of belongings. Money, jacket… the full shebang. Everything except his phone, which I imagine he clutched all night in a panic while Googling “how to escape a party hosted by a lunatic”.

He never came back for them. I like to think of it as the modern-day equivalent of ghosting, but with more laundry.

I was mortified. Genuinely. I spent the day cringing so hard I thought my face might never return to its natural state. I swore off drinking. I even meant it. And I stuck to it – for eight whole months, which, let’s be honest, in your twenties is basically a lifetime.

So, what’s the moral of this story? Don’t invite strangers to birthday parties? Don’t drink until you forget your own postcode? Never trust a hammock?

Honestly, I’m not sure. But if you ever wake up to find a stranger’s shoes in your garden and a raging sense of existential dread… just know: I’ve been there. And I probably still have his hoodie.

Stay tuned for the time I tried to flirt with a barman by pretending I knew how to play pool.

Spoiler: I did not.