5. Virgin

Al approves: 'The best hangover is the one you don't have.'

You thank him for the drink and for inviting you to his wedding. You return to your seat. Your partner's parents keep pulling aside attractive people. They introduce their child and then, reluctantly, yourself. Your non-alcoholic drink is smug.

The rituals begin. Al and Emily eat bread and salt, symbolising marriage's nourishment and hardship. They are both given a shot glass - one has water but the other has vodka. They symbolise which of the two will be the dominant partner. They drink and Al does a fist pump.

The cake is chocolate with vanilla frosting. The wedding garter is pulled off with teeth and twirled on index finger before being thrown into crowd. Your partner has a couple more drinks and you dance.

Al starts another game, loading one bullet into a five-chambered revolver and you wake. Pale blue six o'clock light frames the lowered blinds. You do not have a balcony and so get a coffee on the esplanade. There is sand in the wind.

The beach is shell grit crunching underfoot. Three men walk single file in the approaching direction. The first marches like a drum major who has replaced his baton with a golf driver. The next two share the weight of a rolled-up carpet on their shoulders. You feign ignorance until they pass. This is not your problem.

You kiss your partner awake before packing. Taxi, arrive, board, take off. The plane turns and the window tilts from blue sky to suburbia - flat, same-same, lacking magic. It is subdividing, growing dense with the nuclei of duplicating cells with nowhere to go.

Touchdown and you feel productive. You change bed sheets and do a load of laundry. Dinners are prepped. The pending week is colourful in the light of sober clarity and refracting unseen opportunities in the visible choices offered.