The (dubious) joys of twenty-first parties

Did I mention I'm in love? I've had all day to harp on it, because it's not like I've had anything else to do... So I'm going to call him Technicolour, because the first time I met him he was munting in the garden bed four hours later. Not exactly a rousing endorsement for him, but in his defence, he was the most coherent drunk I've ever encountered. Maybe I'll call him Techie for short. In any case, he's outsrtipped Yellow Shorts Boy, because I've at least had a conversation with him. he probably doesn't remember me at all, since he was rip-roaring drunk for a large part of the time I spent with him, including the hour or so I spent in conversation with him. Shame - that hour is a very precious memory on my part. Oh my God, I'm turning into a soppy high school girl. Shock horror. Still, I can't help it. He's hot, so sue me. And although our conversation was a little left-wing - it's difficult to have an entirely on-the-rails conversation when one half of it has temporarily lost a large part of its reasoning - it was nonetheless a very fascinating conversation.
The twenty-first was not a flop on all counts.