Last night I had to do drunk-sitting. We've all beeen there. A series of misfortunes strikes one of our nearest and dearest with aforce that dictates they get drunk. Very drunk. They then call you. Your role is to find their stuff, call a cab, make them drink water and put them to bed whilst listening to their lament.

There were many upsetting components to last night's intoxicaring. One of the saddest moments was when my drunken friend looked through a magazine.

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I am a thirty -four year old female. That makes me a woman, right?
According to the media, and most of the population, I am a girl.
I am supposed to enjoy girly nights in, or out, with my girlfriends. If I am stuck for ideas of what to do on such nights, the internet yields pages of results. I could have a pamper party, either at my home or in a hotel.

Me and my giddy giggling girlfriends can slip off our impossibly high heels, sip on brightly-coloured cocktails and be massaged and manicured. We could even have a Botox party so we can resemble pixies in a wind tunnel.

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Post-feminism and the cult of the individual have led women to a fairground house of mirrors.We stand before distorted images with increasingly confused rhetoric playing on a loop in the background.

Distortion and confusion prevail in the media. This is nowhere more apparent than the presentation of the relationship between weight and health. For every size zero celebrity feted for their award ceremony garb, there is a true life story about eating disorders.

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The four housemates were sitting in the lounge, having a typically tangenital conversation. The subject of blood donation came up, no-one could remember how.

"I'd really like to donate blood, but we can't"

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It had got to the stage of damage limitation. To get at least part of their deposit back required clear thinking and hard work.
The communal areas had been packed up, it was her job to clean. The walls posed a problem, pocked with gaping blu-tack sores. No time for a full repaint. The hardware shop was two doors down. They mixed paint in tester pots.She requested her shade; "Magnolia with a hint of nicotine, please".
She grinned whilst slapping on the paint. Perfect match.
The hoover refused to perform, so every inch of the floor was swept with a dustpan and brush. The mop handle snapped, so she got on her hands and knees and pushed the rusting mop head round the lino.
Exhausted and reeking of bleach, she closed the door for the final time. Job done.
They received half their deposit back. A bill from a cleaning company and blurry photographs were offered as explanation for the shortfall.
There was a charge for cleaning the ancient broken oven, presumably to make it nice and shiny for the tip. Also listed was a charge for 'removal of excrement from toilet and surrounding walls'.
She supposed this passed for creativity in the world of letting agents. Routine robbery and glib lies must get tedious. She laughed at the ludicrous mental picture; the three of them defecating on the floors, up the walls, and just leaving it there. The house that evolution forgot.