Yesterday I met a wonderful friend who I haven't seen for some time. We go back further than either of us would like to admit, and have seen each other at our worst and best. So we had an hour and a half to fill each other in on how life has been treating us for the past four years. We eventually decided that although there had been trials and tribulations on the way, at this precise moment in our lives, everything was smelling of roses. It was a lovely catch up, and reassuring that there are always those friends out there which you can go without seeing for some time, and then when you do get together, the time just slips away. It was perfect.
The patriarch was over for dinner on Wednesday night, and son number two, well ensconced in the world of recruitment after two weeks, tried to explain to him what a Scrum Master was. This has nothing to do with rugby apparently. My feeble attempt at trying to suggest I knew what he was talking about fell on deaf ears, and he persisted in explaining...several times. I'm not going to bore you here, but I have now been party to the same Scrum Master explanation four times. I am still none the wiser. As he embarked on it for a fifth time this week, his best friend-turned-girlfriend ELL looked at me and raised her eyes to the ceiling muttering 'Here we go again...'.
So even after five times, the only bit I can remember are the two words Waterfall and Agile. This makes it sound more like one of those awful muddy assault courses which middle aged men do on a Sunday to prove that they still 'have it'. Well yes, they do have it - if it includes a low slung paunch, a balding head and a propensity to fall asleep in front of the television each night around 9.00 snoring so loudly that subtitles are required if you want to watch something and understand what the hell is going on....Or is that just the husband?
The patriarch glazed over at the word 'management', and just about managed to remain awake right through to the end of son number two's explanation. As soon as he drew breath, the patriarch, wary that son number two might be about to start spouting some more corporate nonsense, took the opportunity to go home, barely managing to get coat on properly before heading out into the Arctic wind.
Last night was the last Quiz Night of the year. I always look forward to these evenings with The Mother, Miss R and Mrs Jangles. As it is (nearly) Christmas, we had all been encouraged to get a little festive, so I had brought special hats for us all. These were elf hats complete with false, pointy ears. They were all one size, and I was worried that The Mother, whose head is a lot smaller than the rest of ours, would find it too big, having to fold out her own ears to stop it from sliding down to nose level. But how wrong I was. I'm not saying they were snug, but Mrs Jangles and Miss R lost all feeling above the nose around 9.00, and I couldn't hear a damn thing until I folded the ears (the fake ones) at a 90 degree angle from my head. The Mother's hat fitted her perfectly, and went very well with her Christmas jumper, and I eventually chose our team name, having been mulling it over on the journey there.
Having discarded the 'Elf Service', 'Santa's Little Helpers' and 'Elves are in the Building', we finally decided on the most obvious name, what with Miss R's love of the photographic self portrait.
We were The Elfie Selfies....and we finished a respectable second. We would have come first if I had listened to Mrs Jangles about her Smarties and Miss R about Islington.
I blame the hat...