Saturday, 9 July 2016

Get this party started...

Getting ready for a big night out is always different when you're doing it with your sister.  Miss R had booked a meal out with the other pair of reprobate siblings (the mother and Mrs Jangles) on Friday night.  An evening of cocktails, dinner, dancing on the tables, throwing up in the taxi, Alka Seltzers and crying....before falling into bed fully clothed for two hours' sleep...

In reality, it will probably be a swift glass of something in her kitchen, followed by some posh nosh, lots of talking and home before midnight.  Once in our pyjamas, there will be time for one episode of Graham Norton with a hot chocolate before heading off to bed.

Of course, getting ready at home involves allocating around seven minutes sandwiched between the husband's ablutions and his trying on of six different shirts before settling on the first one.  As the perfect wife (ahem ahem...) I will always be expected to put the husband's cufflinks on for him, and straighten his dicky (think what you will, I know what I mean).  All of this doesn't leave me much time to get myself sorted, so I try and do bits throughout the day so that all I need is to slip on my frock and shoes and I'm done.

But at my sister's?  Now that's a different matter altogether.  The only concession to our night out was the fact that I'd sat in the hairdresser's again while another poor unfortunate ironed the curl out of my curls.  I had brought along three different outfits, two pairs of shoes, pink lipstick, red lipstick, every other bit of make-up which I could find, scattered around daughter number one and two's bedrooms, two different jackets and three handbags (still not too sure what I was thinking about with this decision).

Every stage of my 'getting ready' will be accompanied by scooting into her room, checking we look 'alright' (best you can expect when you get to 50+) sharing perfumes, lipsticks and shoes, and slugging back glasses of Prosecco. It's magic, that stuff.  The more of that stuff you drink, the better you look.  Maybe I should start putting that into the husband's flask instead of Nescafe...

All of this reminds me of times gone by, when Miss R and I would get ready together before going clubbing, followed by a kebab (we were classy birds then) and creeping back into the house later than allowed while our poor mum sat bolt upright, ears primed like a Vampire Bat as she listened out for the door. Of course we would always be wearing something completely different to what we'd gone out in, so a quick change in a layby was necessary before coming home.

Going back to yesterday afternoon though, Miss R, seeing my suitcase when I showed up, asked me how long I was planning to stay.

Well that depends, doesn't it?   On how much tea she makes me, how cold the Prosecco is and how much washing and ironing she expects me to do.....

Could be here for quite a while...
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