I have come to realise that the following are not the best of combinations...
Hard week at work
Afternoon and evening in London
Sister with us
Two bottles of Prosecco
We went to see Romesh Ranganathan last night, and felt it was only polite to go into a local hostelry, and warm up with a drink or six. Miss R has a new Special Friend, and last night the husband and I were meeting him for the first time. This was another good reason for the alcohol consumption as her nervous anticipation was catching. So by the time he turned up, I was well on the way to not being able to string a sentence together without including the words 'Is there any left in the bottle?'
What you have to understand here, is that I hadn't had a drink for over two weeks. This is very normal behaviour for me, but results in me getting very drunk, very quickly, on very little. This is what happened last night after my one and a half glasses of Prosecco. Of course, once I'd got to that point, there was no stopping me, and when the Special Friend turned up (five minutes before Happy Hour ended) he went and bought another bottle of Prosecco, so putting to an end any sensible conversation I might have had for the rest of the evening.
Turned out that the Special Friend was rather lovely. He was also quite polite in pretending not to notice that his girlfriend's older sister had eyes which were working independently of each other, and who kept coming out with inane conversation that the brain hadn't passed as fit for human consumption.
The good thing is, I sober up as quickly as I get drunk, so by the time we got to the theatre, I was relatively sober. This was just as well, as we were only seven rows from the front, and I really didn't want to be picked on by Mr Ranganathan. The show was being filmed, and I whispered along the line there that there might be a couple of celebs in the audience. Well I was right. The Special Friend had noticed that the husband was sitting next to one of the waiters from First Dates. As I turned to the husband to tell him, I saw that he was in deep conversation with the waiter and his girlfriend.
When he'd finished chatting, I tapped him on the shoulder, and stage whispered, 'Do you know who that is?'
'No', he replied. 'But I do know she's not the lady I had a row with in the builder's merchant this morning. She looks just like her.'
Bless him, banal television has just passed him by, but the kids were suitably impressed.
Those of you who have the dubious honour of being my friends on facebook, will know that some kind of rodent returned to my loft a couple of night ago. We were woken up on Thursday night by scratching at the ceiling above our bed. Now there is scratching and there is scratching. This defied any noise that a mouse could have made, and friends are suggesting that we may have a Glis Glis up there. I'd never heard of these before, but a quick look on google confirmed my worst fears. They are really cute and they are also a protected animal in the UK. The husband wants to call the Rat Man in to deal with it, whereas I am thinking of taming it and wearing it as a scarf for the winter months.
Coming home last night, the husband said that if the bloody thing started to scratch again, he was heading for son number one's bedroom. I'm not sure why he thinks that it will be any different there - it's not like our loft is split up into different rooms. It's open plan as are most lofts and Glenda (as the predicted Glis Glis has been named) is free to travel...no Brexit borders up there I can tell you.
So I woke up at around 3.00 this morning to the loudest scratching and banging I had ever heard. Was it the Glis Glis? No it wasn't. It was the husband, standing on the bed in his underwear scratching and banging the ceiling in an attempt to persuade the aforementioned rodent to bugger off further down the loft. There was some muttering also. I think I managed to catch the words 'You're going to die you little bastard', before drifting off again in my Prosecco sleep.
It would appear that Glenda's days are numbered...