Tuesday, 10 May 2016

Try, try baby...

Words from a Bird.  Day 131

I have come to the conclusion that If I don't tattoo details onto my forehead, the husband pays little attention to the marvellous events I plan for us at the weekends. 

A couple of weeks ago, I committed the two of us to a rather posh dinner dance.  Now the only reason I agreed to go to this was because 60% of my entire family are going, and I didn't want to feel left out.  Don't you hate it when everyone is talking about a great night out, and you didn't go?  Sitting there the next day listening to them going on about it, when you (or more likely, the husband) had made the fatal decision to stay in and watch Coronation Street that night.

So coming in on the end of the invite (I said yes without really knowing what I was agreeing to) I misheard the name of the event, and told the husband it was a Drifters Ball.

'Aah', he said knowingly, 'Save the last dance for me'.  So between us, we assumed that there would be some kind of tribute band there.  I know that the Drifters are still going in some guise, but the price of the tickets implied that we wouldn't be seeing the genuine article.

It was only on Saturday that my aunt, Mrs Jangles (don't ask...) informed me that it was called the Drifters Ball, but that there would definitely not be any 'Up on the Roof' or 'Under the Boardwalk'.  (Makes you wonder whether the Drifters ever used the pavement?)  It turns out that we won't be going to a mildly exciting evening with some 1950's entertainment sung by a group impersonating a bunch of pensioners.  No.  It is an end of season dinner dance for a local rugby club, none of the members of which are known in any shape or form to anyone in my family.  Of course, this raises the question of how we got to know about it in the first place, but it would appear that Mrs Jangles has 'contacts'.  She moves in strange circles, that one...

So going back to the husband, every time I have mentioned going out this weekend, he's looked at me blankly (this isn't unusual actually) and asked me what we're doing.

After the third explanation of where we're off to at the end of the week, I have now stopped telling him.  As far as I am concerned, it's a night out in a posh frock with someone else doing the washing up.  There will also be a lot of totty to eye up - at my age I can blame the lack of varifocals on the night to explain this away should someone object to my staring.

I am wondering whether the husband would have forgotten about this as quickly if the night had been to celebrate the end of season for the local ladies beach volleyball team.

I doubt it.....
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