It's my 22nd birthday. It's the end of September, my penultimate year at uni has just started, and there's a whole lot going on - new flat, new modules, new songs, and in true PMR spirit, a whole lot of drinking to do. Yep, I'm on fire, alright. It's a great time of year.

Lecture's aren't kicking off until the afternoon, so as a birthday treat to myself, I figure I'll cook one of my favourite recipes - Italian garlic and lemon chicken. It's a good one, this. I found it at allrecipes.com, and it's the one dish I crack out when it's time to impress. I figure I'll get all the prep done now, leave it to bake while I'm in my lecture, then come back, chow down, and head to Grand Central for birthday shots. Great plan.

Only I'm a little over-excited when I'm cooking today. Too much to look forward to with the drinking and celebrations later on. Without thinking about it, I take the potatoes out of the deep-frying oil, and throw some white wine vinegar straight in there. Do you know what happens when you add wine vinegar to boiling oil?

It explodes.

The frying pan erupts. The hob goes up in orange flames (it's an electric hob - what gives?) and I get covered from head to toe in oil and vinegar, trying to turn the heat down whilst screaming in panic. It's all I can do not to get burned myself. Suddenly the stove has become a very warped birthday cake, with the world's biggest candle. My only wish this year is to make it out alive.

Moments later, and crisis has been averted. The pan's done with its Mount Vesuvius reenactment, and I come out without so much as a singed eyelash. Dinner, however, is ruined, as are my clothes. By some miracle the fire alarm hasn't been triggered, but the entire kitchen's coated in oil, and me with it.

Oh, and there's ten minutes until my musicology lecture starts. So much for the great plan.

Fifteen minutes later, a rather greasy and out-of-breath birthday girl slips into a front row seat, five minutes into another of Sheila Whiteley's musicology lectures. She doesn't miss a beat, and I spend the next hour trying not to attract attention to myself in case someone wonders where the hell the smell of garlic is coming from. Way to simmer down, I guess.

Later on, at GC, someone suggests flaming shots. I politely refuse.