Oops! my sexolutions come and go

No more hangovers, I swear to myself. I'm drinking water tonight.

I'm heading to a house party in Bethnal Green. The house belongs to Octavia's New Year-night stand, from whom she hasn't yet parted.

They met at the Playboy Casino and she became his "lucky charm" for backing black over red at the roulette table.

Despite choosing wrongly in the next round - making him lose all his winnings - he still insisted she was lucky.

It's he who is lucky, of course. Octavia is one of the most beautiful blonde bombshells I know, with the cutest German accent.

Now that she's officially single, 2012 is bound to be a wild and wanton year for her - and (perhaps not so lucky after all) he's sure to get his heart broken.

As Annette and I walk down Brick Lane together we chew over our resolutions and grand plans for the year.

It's about time we put on our own party, we decide. We are so used to performing burlesque at other people's nights, we could do with running the show.

We chuckle over ideas for a Blind Date spoof. Annette wants to be a Cilla Black alter ego, I would be Graham and together we will help London find love - whether it be tranny, sugar daddy or good old-fashioned vanilla love.

We arrive at the flat and press the buzzer. My ankles still feel weak from too much dancing.
Octavia is hyperactive as she answers the door and drags us through to the terrace.

January parties are a mistake. Hardly anyone has turned up and Octavia has clearly been bored until we arrive.

To spice things up we turn the conversation to New Year's "sexolutions". Annette's is to stop her dog from jumping on the bed while she's doing it.

Mine is to stop letting sex make me late for things. Octavia boldly announces that she doesn't need a sexolution. Her sex life is complete already, she says.

"How boring," chides Annette. "Can't you imagine anything being better?"

Octavia thinks for a little longer, tapping her nails on her glass.

"Okay," she relents. "My New Year's sexolution is to make an Octavia sandwich."

We splutter on our prosecco (did I say I wasn't going to drink? Oops. First resolution broken.)
With an image of an Octavia sandwich in my head I can see that this is one hell of a sexolution. But then, if the world is going to end in 2012, we may as well resolve to die happy.