My Cups Runneth Over

I like beer.

It could be said that I'm fairly indiscriminate with regard to my taste in beer, as I'm a bit like a heroin addict when it comes to the frothy amber-hued stuff – it doesn't really matter about the quality of the hit, as long as I get some.

Usually, if I'm drinking beer in someone's house, I drink Carlton Draught because, thanks to the trivia questions printed on the underside of the cap, I get to quench both my thirst for beer and my thirst for looking like a know-all smarty-pants. In fact I think it should be a rule that, when asking for a Carlton Draught at the bar of a licensed establishment, the barman should have to ask the customer a trivia question.

"Carlton Draught, please barman".
"That'll be three eighty and the names of both Darrens on Bewitched".

I digress.

A while ago I was at a party, and a bunch of us windswept cool kids were in the kitchen drinking the aforementioned tipple. Every time someone cracked open a fresh bottle (which was often, because all your friends are doing it, and it won't kill you), they'd pose the under-cap trivia question to the kitcheny throng, and whoever answered correctly got to keep the cap. Due to three contributing factors, namely:
a) my handbag being in another room;
b) my contemporary and fashionable outfit not having any pockets; and
c) me being a know-all smarty-pants,
I soon had a large number of beer-bottle caps stashed away in my bra. Unfortunately, there was plenty of room for them.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm at home in my bedroom, muttering happily to myself and trying to undress without falling over, probably having tipped the cab driver a fifty dollar note for a twelve dollar fare. As always, I'd been very, very careful not to wake my housemates – a difficult task in heels on creaky polished floorboards and flammable vapour oozing from every glamorous pore. Finally, after strenuous attempts to figure out the combination to my bra, I get it loose, having completely forgotten about the fifteen bottle-tops nestled snugly within its confines.

DINK-DA-DINK-DINK-DINKLE-DI-DINK-DINK-DINK-DINK-DIIIIIINNNNKKK!

I'm not sure what woke my housemates first – the sound of bottle-tops bouncing in all directions on the floorboards, the sound of me desperately scrambling to catch them, or the sound of me suddenly laughing up my spleen.

I can also be classy.