Damn Michael Marshall Smith.
I used to work for a fairly large company.

Right, that's set the scene. I used to work for a small department in a fairly large company. We (that is, my good self and a number of work (and clubbing) chums who enjoyed the finer things in life) had managed, somehow, to blag our way in to a new 'nitespot' in Sheffield (if memory serves) and a hotel for afterwards.

We'd said something about being from said company, and wanting to book somewhere for a Chrimble party. We'd failed to mention it was just for our department.

Anyway, we were led around the club (early doors) by a suited flunky, and eventually deposited, champagne in place, near the buffet in the VIP section.

Carlton Palmer was there. As was an ex-Eastenders 'star' (the curly headed twit with the dog, I forget). The night, in general, was shit along with the music. The company was good, as were the 'extras' and soon we were all loved up and having a moderately good time.

That's not, you may have guessed, the crux of my story.

No, we all ended up back, in the wee small hours, in the gratis hotel rooms, winding up the staff, running naked in the corridors and ended up, in bed, early in the morning.

I began to feel paranoid. I'd recently contributed to the policy covering probity, standards and acceptable behaviour, and abusing our positions to accept gifts was, obviously... a no no.

The paranoia built up, and I wanted to wake my mate I was sharing the room with, in order to lay that particular demon to bed. I was in no way able to sleep.

I began grinding my teeth.

I was pacing the floor, opening the curtains and looking out over the city.

I would sit down, stand up, hoping my mate would come round from her slumber and put my mind to rest that no-one would ever know or care what had happened this night...

But no. She was spark-o.

I remembered a passage in Only Forward. Mr Michael Marshall Smith's little horror story, where the protagonist smokes in someone's bedroom in order to wake them up. Stating that the unconscious mind would react to the smoke and come round quietly, and calmly.

So I smoked a cigarette to wake her up.

Nothing.

I ended up with a very sore throat, still paranoid, and all alone with my worries and thoughts and fear for hours. And all because some cunt who was better at writing than me was very. fucking. wrong.
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Sun 12 Apr 2009, 7:11, Reply)