It started with the last girly glam-ed up evening for a long while when my bestest friend in the whole world Miss T, the mother of my beautiful god son, threw a 1940s themed birthday party. There was an unbelievable amount of time spent getting ready. It was virtually the whole day, from the outfit choosing, to the walking to Morrisions to buy Champagne (obviously top quality at Morrisions) to the hair removal, nail painting, hair curing, false eyelash sticking and make up applying to the unbelievably large amount of hairspray involvement. And I must admit, and I don't often say this, but I was feeling pretty pleased with myself.
And the night went with a bang. Miss T looked beautiful, she had decorated her house for the occasion and everyone was suitably impressed. People had all made an effort (even if one guest had ordered a navy suit that was two sizes too small, still its the thought that counts).
After several glasses of champagne and some rather potent punch, I kicked off my heels, pulled on some much less sexy boots and we headed out to a local rock bar. I have rarely been to a rock bar since hitting the legal drinking age (not through choice, I quite like them, it just hasn't worked out that way), and I have certainly never been to one is a floor length red gown and fur wrap. Iv also never danced to Rancid before but after the potent punch I could dance to anything (except actual dance music which I will never agree to).
I even started talking to a man (which also, as you will know my lovely readers very rarely happens and when it does leads to comical disasters). He subsequently (because we exchanged telephone numbers) asked me if I wanted to go for a ride on his motorbike (this is where I can foresee the comical disasters).
Now I can just imagine my mother's reaction if I told her I was going round the Yorkshire Dales on the back of a motorbike. It would mainly resolve around her being really mad that if I got injured I wouldn't be able to go do my next season.
'Calm down mum', I would say, 'He works at a hospital, he is a Diagnostic Radiographer'
This is where she would hit me round the head with something heavy and tie me to a chair to make sure that I didn't get on any form of transport with less that four wheels before I got on the plane to France .
On a completely different note, today I got an email from Miss P. She is as ever fabulous and had some big news to pass on that she has been building up to tell me for a long time. The bad news is that she has hung up her seasonaire shoes and the good is that she has moved into the world of proper jobs and a proper boyfriend. Not only that but she said some amazing things that gave me such a boost, at a time when things seem to be moving so fast and completely out of control.
Miss P you know I love you and I always will. Your email had be blubbering throughout Strictly Come Dancing (my mum thought I was drunk and that I was overwhelmed by Kimberley's possible eviction).
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