Room Service

Drunk dialling has long since been a problem for many a drunken idiot. I'm usually pretty good. I rarely ring males or exes. You're more likely to find me ringing a friend to check they got home safely, or ringing the club to ask if by some miracle they found a MAC Eyeliner lying around the d-floor, or an earring down the loo. 

Last weekend, my friend and I were mystery guests at the Vineyard Hotel, which essentially meant walking around in gowns and slippers racking up a phenomenal bill on room service, bubbly, 5-course meals and raiding the minibar. On Saturday night, after a day by the pool, spa treatments, cocktails etc, we decided to visit our local haunt... grrrrrrrrrr.

Covered in shimmer-bronze, sporting new outfits, stilts (heels) and surfer hair, we hit the town – squeaked a few takkies, drunk our weight in Tiger shooters...

...and finally arrived back to the hotel room at 3am – at which point we decided that it was crucial we eat food. Deep-fried food. Immediately.

Olive: Leave it to me!

I pick up the phone to dial '2' for room service. Unfortunately in my paralytic state I used my own phone instead of the hotel phone and '2' happened to be the speed dial for my mother.

Mother: Hello?
Olive: HELLO!!!
Mother: Olive?
Olive: You know my name? That's AMAZING!!! Hic...
Mother: Darling, what ARE you doing?
Olive: Darling? Er, ok Honey... I'd like to... hic... order some room thervice, pleath.... hic....
Mother: What?
Olive: Two battered fishes and... hic... chips... extra cristhpy chips... oh, and... waaaaater. And tomato thauce. Lots of tomato thauce.... hic...
Mother: It's your mother!
Olive: No not butter. I said tomato thauce!
Mother: Darling, you need to hang up and go to bed.
Olive: ... ... er... Mum?
Mother: Yes.
Olive: Why have you rung me at 3am??...
Mother: I give up.