It’s Thursday night and I’m facing the weekend again. It’s hard to believe that it’s nearly two weeks since I was out. I was OUT. In fact, I was OUT two times in a row. There’s just no keeping a good woman down.
On Friday night I had dinner with Chanel No. 5. where baby talk was politely off the menu. I wanted to drink myself into oblivion but I had a quiet word with myself and decided to save it for the following night.
“In the old days you’d probably have found an old coke wrap.” I told her.
At somewhere around two we left the club and ended up at a party in a late night café in Mare Street, Hackney. It wasn’t really the place to be seen in a kaftan wearing fake eyelashes but my fears were soon allayed when I realised everybody (and they were an eclectic bunch) was utterly fucked and could barely see straight. They probably thought I was some kind of colourful hallucination. I felt strangely sober and tucked away another couple of rums.
It wasn’t long before I was getting into a taxi. My drug induced nights well and truly behind me and my back was aching. I reached home around 3.30am. Bushman was dozing, all children looked contented and ‘Blue Velvet’ was playing on the radio. It was then that I realised I had drunk way too much coke. My eyes were wide open until about 5am. I didn’t even have a hangover the next morning. There was a sense in which I was disappointed in myself. Since then I’ve had countless sleepless nights all of them due to baby and none of them due to coke.
Today at 7.45am a man came to fix my washing machine. This is what he discovered in my tubes.
and this pair of earrings
I think my son put them in there.....
It has to be said that things have been little tense in our household of late. Baby Trout keeps us up most of the night which makes everybody tetchy. I count any extra minutes Bushman gets to sleep, keeping them on some kind of mental ‘I do more than you do’ list. I get pissed off that he gets to leave the house everyday and behave like a real person and that our children seem to fit in around him whilst I fit in around every body else. As you can imagine, I’m no shrinking violet and the feminist inside me is constantly shaking her fists, counting the ways in which I am oppressed and shouting about it. In fairness to him the social policies in this country don't help. I should have moved to Denmark.
Because of all this drama, Bushman keeps going on about hired help. Fine, as long as they are neither thinner or better looking than me and he pays for it. It seemed like fate when a rather professional looking leaflet dropped through my door advertising childminding services.
As I looked at it more closely I realised that nobody had run the spell check over this leaflet - "Childmimding" being a favourite. The layout was hideous, nothing was justified and it was clearly written by someone with little command of the English language. The website was even weirder.
Then I wondered.... 'Donysieus' was that supposed to be 'Dionysus' - the god of wine?
Now I like a drink like the next girl, but really I'd say you had one too many love.......