A quest for orange juice
It was a quest for orange juice. That was what made me get out of bed, put on my old blue dressing gown and go downstairs. It was only at the bottom of the stairs that my mind registered what my eyes had seen upon opening a minute earlier. I stopped. My mind had been totally occupied with the concept of orange juice. Now it had been sidetracked. I pulled my dressing gown closer around me.
A girl. In my bed. There was a girl in my bed. Asleep. There was a girl asleep in my bed. A blonde girl. Visions of Goldilocks flashed through my mind. There's a blonde girl sleeping in my bed, said Baby Bear. This unhelpful train of thought was suddenly derailed by the memory of a conversation I'd once had with some friends. A conversation about sex. About one-night stands. Everyone liked the idea of a one-night stand. Except me. I argued vehemently against them. I would never have a one-night stand. They were sleazy. They were immoral. Only a complete bastard would have a one-night stand. I would never have one.
I sat down suddenly on the bottom step. I was a complete bastard. My personal moral standards sank into a bubbling swamp of stinking depravity. And I had a hangover.
This reminded me of my original quest. Orange juice. The best cure for a hangover. I dragged myself up and headed for the kitchen. There were several orange juice cartons lying amongst the cans and bottles in the sink, on the cooker and the floor, even in the microwave. All empty. I opened the fridge in the vain hope that at least one carton had survived the ravages of the party. The fridge contained sixteen cans of Asda lager (untouched), half a tin of baked beans and a shoe full of what looked like coleslaw. No orange juice.
I decided that if I couldn't have orange juice I would at least have a cigarette. I made my way to the front room, picking my way through more cans, bottles and items of clothing.
There were several people in the front room, most of whom I didn't know, but I assumed they were left over from the party. I noticed that many of them were sipping orange juice from pint glasses. My quest was over. One of these people would have to let me have some orange juice. It was my house. My juice. They had to. I sat down, by happy chance, next to a pack of Marlboro Lights, which contained one Marlboro Light and a lighter. I put the cigarette in my mouth and leaned back. As long as I had cigarettes and orange juice I would be fine. I flicked the lighter, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
There was a moment of absolute silence, a deep, tranquil oasis of calm. I felt a warm glow. Then there was chaos. Everyone was shouting and pointing and I was being pushed and slapped by the people nearest me. My dressing gown was ripped from my back and thrown to the floor where it was stamped upon until the flames had been extinguished.
There was another moment of silence. I still had the warm glow but I was anything but calm. I stood, in just my pants, staring at my dressing gown. My slightly smouldering dressing gown. Everyone stood, transfixed, staring at the once blue dressing gown.
I felt the laughter welling up inside me and it wasn't long before it came bursting out and I was laughing hysterically. Suddenly nothing mattered any more, not one-night stands, not orange juice, nothing. And all it took was setting myself on fire.