It's summer 2005, I'm sober and at Chris's house party. The theme is M, meaning you have to dress as something beginning with the letter "m". In attendance are a monk, a Maverick (from Top Gun), a pair of Minnie Mouses, a Buddhist monk, the obligatory Mafioso and so on. Chris has dressed up as a Marxist: he's dyed his hair black, donned sandals and glued bits of wig hair to his face.
A few hours in, I start talking to a drunken guy who has a large toy monkey tied round his head.
"So what do you do?" I say.
"I work for the foreign office," he replies. My eyes wander up towards the monkey strapped to his head, a creeping alarm beginning to register.
"Which department?" I ask.
"Counter proliferation of nuclear weapons," he slurs.