Hot, hot, hot...
So the celebrations have continued. The husband and I were invited down to Mr and Mrs H's house for dinner on Saturday. Now Mrs H is a wonderful Italian lady, well versed in the serving up of delicious Italian fare. Surprisingly, we had homemade curry this time. There were two choices. One was 'mild and coconutty' (not too sure if that is a proper word), and another which was 'a little spicy'.
Now I should have known that the description of 'little' is relative. To me, anything hotter than a Korma is dangerous, whereas the husband will munch through a vindaloo and complain that it's bland. So when the husband said to me that it wasn't too spicy, I thought, 'What's the worst that could happen?' I should say that by this time I had knocked back several glasses of Prosecco, so any decision was marred by the addition of alcohol. I spooned some onto my plate, liberally covering it with raita and the coconutty one (I'm sure that's not a proper word and it is the very last time I'll use it. I promise).
The effect of the first spoonful, was that the spicier of the two curries joined forces with a menopausal hottie, which had been hovering all evening. Galloping together they left a trail of ruddy destruction across my cleavage, coming to a clammy emergency stop on my face. As I discreetly fanned my face with a table mat (who am I kidding...I was wafting it so furiously that several poppadums were dislodged from my plate. 'Is it hot in here?' asked Mrs H.
I carried on flapping while beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, which I dabbed at with my napkin (reminiscent of late 1970's Meatloaf) and when the hottie finally abated, my carefully applied makeup was sliding down my face quicker than a greased up penguin going down a helter-skelter.
The evening ended in the usual way with me and Mrs H playing the Yawning Competition (see who falls asleep first) and the two husbands talking nonsense involving bikes and cider.
I was foolish to have had such a heavy night before The Surprise Birthday Lunch. Finally getting out of bed quite late in the morning (or so I thought), I asked the husband what the time was.
When he replied that it was a quarter past twelve, I asked him whether it was really that time or quarter past eleven.
'Does it matter?' he asked. 'Either way, you've had one hell of a lie in'.
I suppose he had a point...
Now I should have known that the description of 'little' is relative. To me, anything hotter than a Korma is dangerous, whereas the husband will munch through a vindaloo and complain that it's bland. So when the husband said to me that it wasn't too spicy, I thought, 'What's the worst that could happen?' I should say that by this time I had knocked back several glasses of Prosecco, so any decision was marred by the addition of alcohol. I spooned some onto my plate, liberally covering it with raita and the coconutty one (I'm sure that's not a proper word and it is the very last time I'll use it. I promise).
The effect of the first spoonful, was that the spicier of the two curries joined forces with a menopausal hottie, which had been hovering all evening. Galloping together they left a trail of ruddy destruction across my cleavage, coming to a clammy emergency stop on my face. As I discreetly fanned my face with a table mat (who am I kidding...I was wafting it so furiously that several poppadums were dislodged from my plate. 'Is it hot in here?' asked Mrs H.
I carried on flapping while beads of sweat trickled down my forehead, which I dabbed at with my napkin (reminiscent of late 1970's Meatloaf) and when the hottie finally abated, my carefully applied makeup was sliding down my face quicker than a greased up penguin going down a helter-skelter.
The evening ended in the usual way with me and Mrs H playing the Yawning Competition (see who falls asleep first) and the two husbands talking nonsense involving bikes and cider.
I was foolish to have had such a heavy night before The Surprise Birthday Lunch. Finally getting out of bed quite late in the morning (or so I thought), I asked the husband what the time was.
When he replied that it was a quarter past twelve, I asked him whether it was really that time or quarter past eleven.
'Does it matter?' he asked. 'Either way, you've had one hell of a lie in'.
I suppose he had a point...
Comments