Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

      However, we’re not as graceful as we thought we’d be. This is due to:

      1 a) our staggeringly high blood alcohol levels, and

      2 b) our lack of an idyllic lake setting.

      Sadly, I’m unable to catch Karen, and we both end up under the table. The microphone has been passed along to the next table and I suspect that I may in fact have carpet burn on my bum.

      The restaurant is empty now, and the lyrics to ‘All By Myself’ line up. I decide to give it a bash. It’s a bitter and tearful performance. Karen lines up a shot of Sambuca to keep us on our toes. She can no longer pronounce the word ‘hashtag’. Thank Christ. The waitress keeps yawning. It’s such an insult to my art form. Another waitress is stacking chairs and one is polishing the glasses. I suppose that’s what you do at three in the morning.

      ‘Rack ‘em up,’ garbles Karen incoherently. She’s pointing vaguely to the cocktail menu, and in desperate need of subtitles at this point – even I cannot understand her.

      ‘Yeah! Surprise us!’

      We’ve sampled the full array of beverages, and are unsure of what to order next.

      ‘Yeah!’ I address the youngest waiter. ‘Use your initiative!’

      By the way, ‘initiative’ is an impossible word to get my tongue around.

      The screen is blank and the power has been cut from our microphones. I’m tapping ferociously.

      ‘So many songs are left unsung. We’re only getting started! Hey! You there! You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, buster! I was Gretel Von Trapp in the 1992 school production of The Sound of Music. I had to say “I have a sore finger”. It was critically acclaimed!’

      The staff are oblivious to my pleas, and I seem to have spilled my last drink. Since I don’t remember all of the words to ‘My Favourite Things’ or ‘Doe a Deer, a Female Deer’, I drop the subject. Pity, really. Still, this little setback doesn’t dampen our enthusiasm. With tears rolling down my face, I launch into ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’. This is easily the best Foreigner hit. Who needs a backing track when you’ve a belter pair of lungs and a belly full of heart ache?

      The bill, along with two black coffees, is placed on our table. A miniature mint decorates the saucer. Karen is playing air guitar against the backdrop of a Chinese pan pipe version of ‘Lady in Red’. It’s absolutely genius; if only I’d thought of it first. Our long-suffering waiter stands beside us with the pin pad, and we blatantly ignore him. How dare he stifle my creativity? He is raining all over my parade!

      ‘Would you like a taxi, ladies?’ a little Chinese man offers kindly.

      ‘How absolutely dare you?’ I snigger.

      Karen and I make admissions of undying eternal love to each other. Then we have a Mrs-Doyle-style row over who will pay the bill.

      ‘Put your money away,’ shouts Karen. ‘Your money’s no good here.’

      I produce Barry’s credit card and punch in the pin number with glee.

      ‘Barry’s treat. Serves him right for not marrying me! Ha-ha!’

      Karen has to help me up off the floor because I’ve just realised that I’m possibly the funniest person in the world. Really, I should write this stuff down. I might even win the Perrier Comedy Award some day.

      We wave to the staff and promise to return soon. Ling Ling the waitress and I are now soul mates. I’ll send her a Christmas card. I never knew that we were kindred spirits. Karen links my arm as we make our way unsteadily onto the cobblestone pavement, and then bundle into a waiting taxi. It’s with great determination that I finally turn the key in the door. There’s much curtain twitching from that cow next door. I can feel a hangover starting already. This is possibly not a good sign. The house is so still. So silent! I pan around the downstairs – the flat-screen TV, the cream leather couch, and the Shaker-style kitchen. I climb the stairs.

      Alone in our king-sized bed, I sob into my duvet, my mascara staining the Egyptian cotton pillow cases.

       I would have made a beautiful bride!

       Six

      I’ve woken up with that awful feeling where you can’t remember the wheres and whats of the night before. You know the one. I’m scrambling for the details in a cold sweat. It’s a mixture of dread, guilt and fear all rolled up in a bow with a generous dollop of nausea on the side. A vague dream lingers.

       I stand at the top of the aisle in a cream lace dress. Barry is looking dapper and family and friends fill the church pews. Suddenly, Debbie from Slimmers’ Club is pointing her finger at me. I say ‘Who invited you, you skinny cow?’ And now I’m naked. Buck naked! I take the cream rose bouquet to hide the cellulite on my bottom. Father Maguire is cackling. I’m running and there is a rabbit chasing me.

      The only explanation is that there must have been tequila in at least one of the drinks last night, which is a fatal error and may have accounted for my terrifying nightmare. Tequila and I are no longer friends. We are sworn enemies since our run-in back in 2001 I don’t want to talk about it.

      My head has a heartbeat of its own and a fuzzy image starts to tune in. I clutch the duvet. It’s time to work through the checklist and assess any harm done.

      Check 1: Male company in the bed? Negative. Only a feather boa and a crushed photo of Barry accompany me.

      Check 2: Underwear? Affirmative. Smalls have not been lost slash stolen.

      Check 3: Embarrassing conversations? Affirmative. Scan shows traces of whimpering and crying.

      Check 4: Embarrassing actions? Affirmative. Scan detects that I skidded on an Abrakebabra wrapper on the street. In addition, scan shows image of me asking the taxi to stop as my kung pao beef gave an encore performance. Scan does not recall making it to the toilet on time.

      I brace myself for the final check.

      Check 5: Inappropriate use of mobile phone: Negative. Sent box is nil for picture texts of rude bits. Phone log is nil for calls to Barry, Barry’s mother or Barry’s office. Phone records show that the only number dialled was for ‘Soon Fatt’ Chinese restaurant in search of the best curry chips this side of the Liffey. Said curry chips are lying squashed in the bed beside me, I must have rolled over them in my sleep. It’s OK, they still taste good.

      The moral of Check 5 is: don’t drink and dial. The use of a mobile phone when combined with a recent fight with your boyfriend is a poisonous combination. I’m relieved. What willpower. What success. What a bender!

      I glance at my phone again. Not even a measly text from Barry to see if I’m still breathing, for goodness’ sake! Perhaps I’ll call him to see that he landed safely. Then again, it’s best to wait until the painkillers have kicked in.

      I swallow the pills with a grimace. What if we don’t make up? What if Barry ends this? My stomach heaves and I reach for the bin. A text appears from my younger brother Ian.

       hey sis. Heard you had a blazer with Baz.

      Little shit, I think. I hastily text back.

       It’s Barry, not Baz you Neanderthal!

      He knows it winds me up no end when people shorten Barry’s name. So common! I reach for my much treasured OK! magazine on the bedside locker. There’s an intriguing article about HRH (His Royal Hotness) Prince Michael and his recent flirting with some model or other. He’s quite dishy for a royal. I’m just saying.

      I answer my phone before checking who’s calling – a classic mistake. It’s Mum. News of our big blow-out, it seems,