At least it was a leather skirt

It is 4.30am and you are walking home alone through the stark streets of a concrete city. It is -14 degrees and the wind is bitter and blowing right in your face. In the manner of Saturday nights, you are so shod and clothed as to require a taxi. There are no taxis. Your stilettoes pinch and your favourite leather skirt is covered in someone else's vomit. You are carrying bulging carrier bags full of linen soiled with someone else's vomit. Your hands, clothes, hosiery and hair smell of bleach and of someone else's vomit. You have spent the last four hours dealing with someone else's vomit. You have not slept for twenty-two hours or eaten for thirty, you still have Friday night's hangover, your legs have lost all feeling owing to the cold, and when you get back it takes another two hours to fall asleep. If anyone can beat that for the end of a night out, I would like to hear about it. And I missed Mass.