If you feel like death the day after a party, it's usually because the party was either very good, so you got carried away, or very bad so you needed to drown your sorrows. Mr G's 'first birthday party' (first year of surviving the two strokes he had on June 28th and 29th last year) on Saturday was the former, than goodness. We didn't get the hordes of screaming brats we were expecting and those youngsters who did come were very well behaved and soon had their noses in the weird coloured trifles Mr G had made - a green one, a turquoise one and a bright pink one, full of marshmallows and custard (think of the E numbers!).
I can remember saying something I shouldn't and hearing indrawn breaths. I fear it was something along the lines of having been with Mr G 11 years and he'd never wanted to make an honest woman out of me. That didn't go down well with his relatives. I might even have said I felt I had wasted the last decade. Oh dear. Luckily, more wine brought oblivion, and Sunday brought a near death experience where I felt too nauseous to raise my head from the pillow, but got dizzy just lying there as the bed kept revolving. And who was knocking at my head with a large hammer, trying to get in?
For some reason, I paired an orange top with orange trousers and looked like a follower of the Bagwani Shri Rajneesh, if that's how you spell his orange holiness's name. In the morning, I found wine stains on it, dunked it in cool water in the sink and all the dye came out. It is now in the charity shop bag. Shame, 'cos I liked it, but it's only going back to the place I got it from, in slightly faded condition, rather like myself.
3 comments:
Oh no, you're starting to look like the kind of North London mad lady we used to make jokes about 20 years ago...
Bet you hang out in charity shops. Next step will be rooting through litter bins in search of a daily paper and something to eat while you're reading it.
Of COURSE I hang out in charity shops. What else? Who can afford to pay full price for anything these days? North London mad lady? Yep, that's me all right! I pick up papers to read on the Tube, but rather than rooting through bins, I'd prefer to do what I saw a woman do in Pimlico once, and that is swoop on a pigeon, stuff it up her cardi and take it home for the pot.
There isn't much meat on a London pigeon. Perhaps she just wanted a pet? Or intended to make a scrawny sacrifice of it?
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