Words from a Bird. Day 136
Friday night saw the culmination of my week's efforts come together. Much had been done in preparation for the BIG NIGHT OUT at the Drifters Ball. Not only did I have a fab new dress, but hair had been done (the husband still hasn't noticed), upper lip waxed, eyebrows had been thinned out and lipstick applied. Unfortunately, I still hadn't found the time to take a Black and Decker to the legs, but as long as I didn't stand closely to someone with the same problem, it would be fine (think Velcro). I was polished, groomed and ready to party.
It was an interesting night to be honest. Any sort of event involving a rugby club is going to be testosterone fuelled, and for some reason the men in the room insisted on mooing like rampant bulls every time someone stood up to speak. I am sure that if you knew the club, then all this would make sense, but as none of our party did (I still haven't worked out how Mrs Jangles got these 'rarer than hen's teeth' tickets) it was rather disconcerting every time they piped up. I felt like I was on the set of Countryfile several times.
If the men were manly, then the women were.....well....suffice to say that at one point in the evening I asked Miss R whether we had stumbled onto a gypsy wedding. Colour-wise, someone had let these females loose in the highlighter section and once the disco started, with it's flashing light (not much spent on the DJ methinks) I am surprised that I didn't get an immediate migraine. Now as an older lady, who has had the occasional moment over the years, I don't have a problem with younger ladies flashing off their best bits when appropriate. We did all agree though, that a) some of them weren't that young b) most of them shouldn't have been flashing their bits, best or otherwise, and c) appropriate it wasn't.
So we sort of kept ourselves to ourselves, and made our own entertainment. Miss R, Mrs Jangles and the Mother managed to polish off four bottles of red wine between them. One of these was liberated from the table next to us (this will teach the 'ladies' to go off and dance, leaving their table unattended). We danced all night to a rather muffled sound system, with a DJ who was sporting a black and white badger hairdo. There are no words to fully describe this, however hard I try. He looked like a cross between the lead singer of the Prodigy and Cruella de Vil and his music purchases had stopped circa 1986. Not that I am complaining - at least I knew all the words...
Talking of the dancing, there was one rather strange lady on the dance floor. Her top half wasn't always dancing to the same as her bottom half. I would hazard a guess that her ears were listening to Chaka Khan, but her feet were hearing River Dance such was the ferocity and speed of them. She also did a pretty good windmill impersonation, managing to dislodge the double sided industrial tape which was just about reining in a pair of 40DD's on a lady who won't see 35 again. In truth, she probably was on the wrong side of 45, but as I didn't have the varifocals on (vanity is a terrible thing) I am erring on the side of generosity here.
The highlight of my night was courtesy of Mrs Jangles, who was looking resplendent in a flapper-style fringed number. She had been dancing like a wild thing and towards the end of the evening, she kept standing up and wafting her frock around.
'What's the matter Mrs Jangles?' I asked as she waved the material side to side frantically.
'My fringes are damp', says she. 'If I don't dry them out, I won't be able to do a thing with them'.
I had visions of the fringing doing an instant Don King, leaving her looking more like a French poodle rather than the elegant vision from the start of the evening, and regretted not bringing my hair straighteners with me.
Nights like these usually end in the same way. The lights come up, partners look at each other in the stark fluorescent lighting, and depending on how much they've drunk/how well they know each other, they either look delighted, mildly terrified or relieved. There's usually some tears, male bonding and women padding around in bare feet, unable to take the pressure on the bunions a moment longer.
However, this night ended slightly differently.
A fight ensued (too much testosterone as I said earlier) and a man ended up in the middle of our table, sending glasses and bottles to oblivion.
The overriding emotion at our table was not one of concern for the poor chap, lying facedown on the linen tablecloth, nor worry for his wife who was mortified. Oh no.
Our table were just relieved that he managed to miss the last half-full (ever the optimist) bottle of red in his transit across the table.
You see, it's all about priorities....