As a famous aristocrat once wrote, “Never apologise, never explain”. But then, sometimes it does you a world of good. Last Saturday, after the excursion to London, I went round to the hosue shared by fellow activity organisers at the school for a barbequeue, which turned into a late night party. At some point during the evening, punch was made in a plastic bucket. Thinking punch is basically fruit juice with a little more of a kick, I went straight for it, unaware of what precisely made up this punch. For the record, it was almost entirely rum. It was not so much ‘punch’ as ‘GBH’. The last thing I remember that night was coming round and wondering why I had a redhead wig on my head.
The big question this week was whether to say sorry for getting amazingly drunk, abusing their hospitality, smashing all the slats out of the spare bed and crashing at their place. But oddly enough, the only thing I was asked about was a missing bottle of white wine that one of the girls had put in the fridge. I don’t remember drinking it, and I don’t think it would have been physically possible in the state I was in to open it. But still, tonight I set off for the staff house carrying a bottle of white wine that I have pinched from my family’s store (in the manner of a Wehrmacht officer billeted in a French chateau). If you had to ask me why, it wouldn’t be for the need to apologise somehow for my ridiculous behaviour, or the thought that it wasn’t worth arguing over something I don’t even know if I did or not. It was because of one of the important rules of my life: that it’s never a good thing to get on the wrong side of a pretty girl for too long.