…this morning my feet are killing me!
This was an impromptu, completely unorganised and chaotic evening. We decided to go out whilst driving back from Bridgnorth, which was also a spontaneous trip, decided spur of the moment, whilst out for lunch in a completely different county. We only went to Bridgnorth to look round some vintage shops, nearly killing ourselves in the process whilst attempting to negotiate some treacherous stairs in sky-high heels in a shop even less organised and more cluttered than my closet. Our first plan of action for the evening was to go to Birmingham (not that ‘plan’ can really be used to describe frantically debating where to go as driving to bff’s house to pick-up her clothes). We then decided, with a little persuasion from bff’s fiancé, to head-out in Worcester and boogie, and behave, like teenagers.
Lethal stairs and pure chaos:
Bff is half my size, but as I have no teenie-bopping clobber lurking in my tip-esque car, I, naturally, try to squeeze my much larger derriere into bff’s most ‘I am 13 again’ attire. A solid hour, a bottle of wine and, at my best estimate, 50 outfit-changes later, I am appropriately-ish (we really do not look anywhere near 13) dressed.
Bff’s outfit (I told you she looks like a supermodel; if she wasn’t my oldest friend I’d hate her – skinny cow!):
Bff looks, as ever, like a superstar supermodel (hardly a 13-year-old’s idea of looking good on a night out as there was no practically non-existent skirt involved). I look like I’m having a mum’s, hopefully a yummy-mummy’s, night out but at least I did not stay in the spandex, sequinned leggings that I tried on which made bff squirt wine from her nostrils and fall from the bed with laughter. All things considered, I was looking pretty good.
So bff and I hit the dance floor. We were looking fierce and busting out all manner of groovy moves, proving to all the kids (hopefully they were actually around 18) that we have most definitely still got it. We are going great-guns, arms flailing widely and footwork so fancy that any onlookers would have thought the late, great Michael Jackson personally taught us how to get-down. I am now extremely cocky and even throwing-in some line-dancing heel slaps; unfortunately, this is when T-Pain’s apple bottom jeans comes on and I decide to ‘hit the floor’. The first time I ‘drop it like it’s hot’. I am looking simply fabulous. I even get that multi-level ass-shaking thing down to a tee and snap back up like a freshly released elastic band. This is when disaster strikes. I go down for the second time hoping to get even lower than the first and teach the children how the pros do it. I find myself practically sat on the floor but unable to get back up; my legs have completely given up on me and bff has to help me up. The youngsters snigger and I retreat to the bar.
We then move on to a club where we find so few people it is not at all farfetched to picture tumble-weed blowing through the central dance floor. Thankfully it livens up just in time for us to slink back to bff’s equipped with pizza to watch Sex and the City in bed.
At 7am the deafening alarm awakes bff and I, after what feels like 5 minutes sleep, so I can take munchkin to his first proper birthday party. As soon as we enter my brain starts to throb as screams, howls and high-pitched laughter echo through my fragile head. As newbies at school we know absolutely nothing about anything or anyone. All of the parents are stood around talking and drinking coffee, not rushing back to their car to make use of two-hours of child free bliss. Slowly the realisation that I will have to stay the entire two hours sinks in. Nowhere and I repeat NOWHERE on the invitation did it state that parents should remain at the party. I know none of the mums so look around sheepishly for another newbie to chat to. I am lucky; one is right beside me and turns out to be lovely – phew.
Half way through the party I realise I have in fact got one of the party boys names wrong. I have missed the ‘o’ from his name on the otherwise perfectly picked out card. I beg forgiveness rather awkwardly from the mother of said misnamed child and she tells me that Roberto is often called Robert when she is stern with him. Great – now I feel bad. I laugh it off and tell her I hope he does not think I am angry with him and apologise some more.
I remain on good terms for the duration of the party, until, upon departure, my little cherub is the only child not to thank the mothers for his goodie bag. I enthusiastically thank all the hosting parents and exit after short farewells. I have survived my first school party with almost no hiccups despite minimal sleep, a hangover and server brain ache and did so in relative style.
Today’s outfit: Yesterday’s Day-time Outfit: Yesterday’s Night-time Outfit (Bff’s):