The concept of walking home the morning after an excessively enjoyable night out is new to no one. I’m not entirely sure it’s possible to get through four years of college without doing it at least once, whether or not you have actually done anything to be ashamed of. The night before quickly becomes irrelevant in the face of a cocktail mini dress parading down the sidewalk in the middle of the day.

After a night out that culminated in a very nice British girl trying to open the door with her umbrella through the mail slot, one of the guys climbing the house to break in a window while another acted as a stool, all while I was artfully draped over the fence in my drunken stupor, our little group promptly passed out in a lovely little house somewhere in Fulham. The morning brought with it a headache and false promises of pizza, both of which made it seem like a good time to go home.

Actually, I use the term ‘morning’ loosely considering the hour was something closer to three in the afternoon. Luckily I had two upstanding gentlemen to walk me to the nearest tube station. But, while my gorgeous ensemble of short, strapless, satin with fishnets and knee high leather boots was a genuine work of genius 18 hours previously, there was a definite air of ‘whore’ about it in the harsh light of day. Sadly the combination of the outfit and my escort was not doing me any favors. A favor I really could have used when it became apparent that there was a Chelsea football game that day. It may seem that one should have nothing to do with the other, but the entirety of Chelsea’s exuberant football fans were en mass outside the stadium, and thus around the very tube station I needed to get to. Football games are very family friendly. My current predicament was not- by all appearances. I really didn’t help my case any when one of the guys said he was cold.

“You think you’re cold? At least you’re wearing pants.” In England pants are underwear, which are knickers, which are decidedly not trousers. So, in the midst of children and drunken men I had just announced that I was going commando. Which I wasn’t.  And my afternoon only got better.

Now on my own in the Underground the stares got a little more pointed and lingering, but that was hardly unexpected. The little girl who stared at me for a full five minutes was. Sensing that absolutely no one was going to come to the defense of the girl with no pants on I stared back. And then she reached up to whisper to her mother, loudly.

“Mummy, why is that lady all dressed up?”

This woman looks at me, looks at her daughter, and slowly turns the little girl around to face away from me. “Because she makes bad decisions.”

Now I knew I was hardly the classiest girl prancing around London, but that was just uncalled for. So, when I left the station and a random man asked me to get some coffee, I’d really had enough for one afternoon and walked off towards my flat. “I can’t actually. I’m off to find my dignity. I’m pretty sure I left it somewhere over this way.”