Monday, 1 August 2016

Yes sir, that's my baby...

I think I recovered from Saturday's 1920's night out around 5.00pm yesterday.  I know that you are all shaking your heads, and tut-tutting right now, but it actually had nothing to do with the one glass of pre-Prohibition fizz that I had.  If I fill you all in on how the night went, it might make more sense..

So the husband, accompanied by his three slappers (by 6.30 we had decided that this was a more accurate description of us than the flappers we were dressed as) headed up to London.  The husband was driving, pretending not to listen as we chatted about husbands, boyfriends past and present and personal hygiene (I am NOT going to elucidate on this, no matter how much money you all scrape together). 

We had all dressed up beautifully. Mrs S was in vibrant purple fringing, with feathers at the side of her head.  Miss R was in lilac, with feathers at the front of her head (these kept getting a touch of the brewer's droop as the night progressed, and she resembled one of Dr Who's daleks for part of the evening when the glue finally gave up the ghost).  I was in blue beading and wore my feather at the back of my head.  Mrs S suggested that we had covered every feather base.  The husband was wearing his dinner suit and braces, so we all looked the part.

The place itself was incredible (http://www.thecandlelightclub.com) with everyone dressed up and dancing like crazy things to the 1920's live band.  As soon as dinner was eaten, the husband and I were up on the floor, and it was here that the husband made the biggest revelation to me since the day we met in 1979.....

It would appear that frantic swing is the dance that his body beats a time to.  Over the years, the children and I have despaired at his rhythm, questioning him as to whether he was listening to a completely different song than the rest of us were, he was so out of time.  But this really suited him, and before too long we were throwing ourselves into the madness of the swing dance, sweating like we'd run a marathon, treading on everyone else's toes and basically having a fantastic time.  This continued for the next three hours.

So when I say it took till 5.00pm yesterday to recover, it is mainly because of the following:

Three blisters across one foot which made any kind of footwear impossible
One hip which seized up at 90 degrees, making me look like a German Stormtrooper
Two knees which will never straighten again (this complements the look brought on by the hip)

Of course, you can add to that the fact that I had to drive three drunks home across London in what felt like a double decker bus.  Apart from a three point turn down a one way street because there was a tank in the way (don't ask) and narrowly avoiding a moped driver who thought it was a fine idea to undertake me, this all went swimmingly. 

Dropping Miss R off at her residence, she had to be manhandled into her front door, while Mrs S just talked about eating toast all the way home.  The husband walked through the front door, leaving a trail of black and white across the bedroom floor before passing out, and I went to bed leaving Mrs S wrestling with Percy and Reg as to who was sleeping in the middle.

All in all, a successful night....but boy did I pay...
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