It began, like many emergency room stories, with alcohol. A group of us had been invited to a 70s themed party and we had converged on a friend's house to get ready.

I was looking pretty hot in my dark denim, halter neck, midriff top and matching A-line skirt, both printed with bright green letters of the alphabet. Yes, the 70s, the decade style didn't just forget, it's still actively seeking therapy for.

But the pride of my outfit was not the gorgeous threads, nor was it the bright blue, glittery eye shadow or the astonishingly shiny lip gloss. It was the gigantic, towering, cork, platform shoes complete with matching denim straps I had managed to unearth at a second hand store.

They were stupendously big. I made Yao Ming look like a midget.

It is probably worth pointing out here that I can't walk for shit in high heels. I have weak ankles and my balance goes all pear-shaped the minute I put them on. Combined with multiple Lemon Ruskies, this was a recipe for disaster.

My friend Jaquita and I were struggling with our false eyelashes. I'd finally managed to adhere mine with a combination of substances which probably would have glued tiles to the space shuttle fairly effectively, but Jaq called to me from the bathroom, needing help. I'd gone in, staple-gunned them to her eyelid and was making my way elegantly back out to the lounge room when my ankle turned.

I went down like a sack of spuds. But it wasn't my ankle that was the problem. In the narrow hallway, I'd put my hand down behind me to stop myself and caught it against the skirting board, flexing my wrist upwards at an angle never intended by nature. On top of that, I was coming down from a height usually reserved for large aircraft.

I got up, cursing and wiggling my now numb hand to see if I'd broken anything (just like on ER, good one Dr Tree). Everything appeared to move OK, but it was a bit achey, so I grabbed a bag of frozen peas and wrapped it around my wrist to numb it.

We continued getting ready, which basically consisted of getting completely plastered and taking photos as proof.

Eventually we realised that there was a party behind all of this, so we headed off. On the way, I noticed that the dimple in the bottom of the Lemon Ruski bottle was exactly the size of the gigantic lump forming on my wrist. Neat! I had a place to rest my drink and the coldness of the bottle helped numb the pain! I swear, I should be a doctor! Everyone in the cab marveled at my discovery, no one in the least unsettled by the rapid and ugly deformation of my wrist.

We arrived at the party and mingled. Everyone seemed to be fascinated by my new medical discovery, especially after a couple of spliffs. It was about three in the morning before I started to wonder if perhaps there was something wrong.

I'd gone to the punch bowl and poured myself a cup of punch. I'd then reached for the glass with my right hand, which was attached to a wrist that could have performed as a double for the Elephant Man.

My hand wouldn't work.

I couldn't pick up the cup. My fingers wouldn't move. My brain would tell them, "Pick up nummy cup of alcoholic goodness" and they stayed resolutely still.

I tried several times and I imagine my look of puzzlement would have been enormously amusing. My hand had worked before. It had been working quite well all evening. Why would it stop now?

I mentioned the wayward limb to a friend who casually said she was going home and could drop me off at the local emergency room if I liked. I thought this was a remarkably good idea, so I picked up my drink with my perfectly functioning left hand and headed off.

I imagine that emergency room staff see some pretty amusing things in their time. I must have been a pretty impressive sight in my outfit, barefoot (I was carrying my shoes, I wasn't that stupid), with makeup starting to drift south and a wrist the size of a pumpkin. As for how I had ended up in that state, well, they were at least polite enough to muffle their laughter.

I had to wait a couple of hours because stabbings and multiple car wreck patients rate higher than fashion victims. The nice doctor who eventually saw me admired my shoes and the way I'd kept the injury iced, but mentioned that alcohol was probably not the best thing for an injury like that and I probably should have left it in the bottle. He also kindly explained that the alcohol and spliffs would wear off in a couple of hours and here were some pain killers because I was going to sure as hell need them, if not for the wrist, then for the hangover I was going to have when I woke up.

He took some pretty pictures of my wrist and determined that while I'd managed to not break anything (something he attributed to the rubbery-ness of the extremely drunk), I'd FUBAR-ed the tendons and ligaments quite spectacularly and my right hand was probably going to be AWOL for a couple of weeks.

He suggested that perhaps I should cut platform shoes out of my style regime for a while.

They are words I have taken to heart. I'm thinking of writing a self-help book about it.