So Friday night pretty well went the way I said it would. Prosecco in the kitchen for us younger ones, while the older pair settled for a bottle of Malbec, cutting out the middle man completely by taking it in turns to swig out the bottle. They turned up early at Miss R's house. Half an hour early in fact, which meant that while they were knocking it back in the kitchen, Miss R and I were still putting the finishing touches to our makeup and hair.
The taxi arrived on time. This was a huge relief to Miss R and me, as Mrs Jangles and the mother were eying up a second bottle of Malbec in a very suspect manner. If they'd managed to get their corkscrew into that one as well, we may well have had to leave them there, slumped over their glasses at the kitchen table, singing some dreadful songs from the 60's. I will have to have word to Miss R about leaving her wine on show - perhaps some discretion is needed when Hinge and Bracket are on a mission.
So off to Windsor, where we had posh fish and chips, Prosecco, Malbec, pork belly, Malbec, profiteroles, Prosecco and cheesecake. When the waiter was taking our pudding orders, Miss R declined, and simply ordered another glass of Prosecco (she didn't want to feel left out I suspect).
After dinner, Miss R suggested an 'easy five minute stroll' to an intimate bar which she was fond off. As the four of walked through Windsor, each dealing with our own level of foot pain thanks to the heels we'd all worn, we were all very keen to see this bar. Another five minutes passed. Mrs Jangles was developing a blister. Another five minutes and by now I had lost all feeling in my right foot.
The peasants were revolting by this time, and there was muttering going on in the lower ranks as Miss R strided through the town, shrilling 'Follow me!' As we passed a wheelie bin (not one of mine I hasten to add) there was talk of bundling Miss R into it while we had a sit down, but she was saved by the sudden appearance of our destination. All pink, sparkly and intimate.
The bouncers let us in which was the biggest shock. The second was the size of the place. Intimate is probably not the right word for it. Compact is better, claustrophobic nearer the truth, but 'Cupboard Under The Stairs' would probably nail it. It was around one chair/one table/one person wide. Miss R and I had to share a pouffe (make of this what you will) but the mother and Mrs Jangles looked like royalty in their thrones, surrounded by faux leather wallpaper, faux diamond chandeliers and faux silver ceilings. The added value of fake boobs, eyelashes, tans and hairlines was well in keeping with the décor, and we all felt rather inadequate.
One drink was enough. Forcing any more liquid or food into our stomachs would have meant that some greasing of the hips might have been necessary to get out of the cupboard door, and no one wants to see four ladies of indeterminate age passing a tub of goose fat round.
But then again, who knows what people want these days...