It was five thirty in the morning of the night before. We had been in bed exactly an hour, when the blast of car horns began echoing off the walls of our small Alpine village.

The door to the hotel room banged open and my brother-in-law fell through it, the last of our die-hard guests staggering in after him. He lurched across to us, holding a chamber pot and I glimpsed the contents swirling dangerously close to the rim. A human gyroscope, he weaved across to the bed, the liquid in the pot maintaining its position, despite its gravity defying trajectory.

With a grin, he placed the chamber pot firmly into my hands “dri..nk” he slurred. The porcelain was cool beneath my fingers, the delicate pink roses and twined handles giving the object a prettiness which belied its chief function. With distaste, I lowered my eyes and took in the frothy brown liquid.

The bride and groom were floating face down and remnants of our wedding gave subdued, surprise appearances before disappearing back into the depths. Sugared almonds, bleached white, bobbed next to suspicious pink paper which drifted on the periphery, like scum on the edge of a stagnant lake. The whole think reeked.

My new husband, in bed beside me, leant over to get a better look. The sudden movement provoked a tidal wave and the bridal couple flipped over. Last seen, proudly presiding over our “pièce montée”, the bride and groom, on loan from the baker, had just seen their last wedding cake. I noticed that the bride’s dress was stained and her head was chipped. I knew how she felt.

“Drink! Drink! Drink!” I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out the sound of the chanting. The smell wafting from the pot was starting to smell suspiciously like champagne and chocolate, but there was no way I was going to touch that concoction. What sort of tradition was this anyway, that encouraged guests of the newly weds to bring them a chamber pot on their wedding night?

The handle of an antique silver sauce spoon, protruded from the liquid; pilfered from the restaurant, I imagined. I sure was going to have some explaining to do tomorrow. My husband grabbed it and with professional interest began delving deep into the depths of the chamber pot. I turned my head away.

“Drink! Drink! Drink!” the shouting had reached fever pitch and I realized to my dismay that there would be no escape. I brought the pot slowly to my lips, tipped my head back and swallowed.

This post was inspired by Scribbits prompt “My most adventurous moment” and coincides with our 9th Wedding anniversary.