Mr Jones gets drunk....

Last saturday night I went out with the girls and Mr Jones went out with Mr Medd. My evening of girly chat was disturbed by the sudden and rather unstable appearance of the aforementioned gentlemen (or drunken blackguards depending on your perspective).

Mr Jones, grinning inanely, presented me with a piece of paper - "Look - I got a girls number!"

There's an audible gasp from the assembled womenfolk. I look at him. wondering if his self esteem has taken a knocking recently and this is his way of dragging it out of the gutter, or whether he really is that drunk and that stupid that he thinks that I will in some way be impressed by this show of his manly prowess. I raise one eyebrow.

"This number is going to score me so many points, I won't get into trouble for ages," he boasts.

I am swiftly coming to the conclusion that his brain is indeed addled by gin. The eyes of all around the table are on me, I'm starting to wish that the toilets of the bar would provide a more ameniable refuge - I weigh up my mortification with the possibility of holing myself up in the urine and toilet roll filled cupboard with a cracked mirror and a couple of teary Stamford school girls who have been similarly treated by their boyfriends. (I'm not that mortified yet).

Mr Jones doesn't seem to have noticed the storm clouds of rage gathering behind my eyes and is barrelling on with his story.

"We were standing at the bar chatting and drinking and the barmaid was talking to us too," (Oh god - a slutty barmaid - brilliant). "I asked her what she did..." (other than serve drinks to drunken idiots and try to steal other people's fiancees?) "...and it turns out that she's a music teacher just out of university..." (The clouds start to clear). "...so I asked her if she plays the saxophone - and she only bloody does." He grins at me inanely as I sit there open mouthed. "And," he says proudly, swaying dangerously to one side. "She'd love to play at the wedding as you walk down the aisle."

I have to admit that I am impressed and give him a big kiss to say thank you. As a precautionary measure I take the number for safe keeping.

Mr Jones was, however, wrong about one thing - that putting me in possession of a saxophonists number would absolve him of all future wrongs. You see, drunk Mr Jones and relatively sober Mrs Jones-to-be don't like each other all that much. So the night ended with a row, followed by Mr Jones being violently sick, followed by him apologising profusely and asking me to make him feel better.

On Sunday we didn't speak much. Mr Jones recuperated on the sofa and I proved that gardening is indeed a panacea for stress and anger.

On Monday morning I gave Mr Jones the barmaid/saxophonists number and asked him if he could call her. He looked blankly at the piece of paper - "what's this?" - then after a few seconds "Oh yeah - I'd completely forgotten - how cool is that?"*

*Mrs Jones-to-be would like to remind all her readers to drink responsibly and doesn't recommend that anyone try getting this drunk at home.