Saturday, 1 July 2017

The race...

Oh how my head hurts...

Drinking alcohol for me is like a taking part in an 1800m running race.  I start slowly, full of good intentions of driving home later in the day.  Around about 600m I've now had my two drinks, and am feeling smug about the fact that I won't have a hangover the next day, unlike many of my companions.  At the 1200m mark, the husband sidles up to me, and tells me that we're getting a taxi home so I speed up a little, still not wanting to peak too soon, but keen to get to the same level of merriment as my family.   The last 100m?  Well, this is spent necking back red wine as fast as possible, with no regard for the state of my head in the morning.

Hence the headache...

Henley Regatta is a funny old thing to go to.  I have the luxury of sitting it out in a club which my father belongs to. This has an average membership age of 85, and has no stairs, complimentary wheelchairs, soft food and extremely polite waiting staff who talk to everyone with just the right amount of deference and volume.  There is also a pervading odour of formaldehyde and lavender which wafts around the older members.  It's a bit like being in a very posh retirement home but without the nurses and plastic covered chairs. 

Having said all of that, it is always extremely 'proper' with gentlemen not allowed to remove their jackets and ladies having to wear skirts below the knee.  It is quite a change to go somewhere with high standards, and when we left the club at the end of the afternoon, to go into the town for dinner, it was apparent that perhaps standards weren't so high outside of the security walls and electric fencing.

The Mother brought me up teaching me that you never show your boobs and legs in the same outfit.  So if you are wearing a short skirt for example, match it up with a polo neck (even in the summer - rules are rules).  Plunging neckline?  Long trousers are then de rigueur.  Unfortunately, many of the females out last night obviously don't have a mother like mine as all that was keeping them from being labelled a naturist was a strip of elasticated material about 8" deep stretched to full capacity across a body which probably should've been sporting something a little more forgiving (this is the polite way of suggesting that they should 'PUT SOME BLOODY CLOTHES ON!')  

But it was fine because each and every one of them was wearing a hat.  And as we all know, wearing a beautiful hat immediately gives you class and elegance detracting from the fact that you are 1cm away from being arrested for indecent exposure.  I suppose that we should all be grateful that it wasn't too windy yesterday, as the hats stayed on and the hemlines down.  Mind you, seeing how tightly some of the dresses were, a crowbar and tub of Vaseline would have been needed to raise the hemlines on them.  The wearers are probably still in those dresses now, wondering how the hell they are going to escape, and eyeing up the kitchen scissors with regret.

But we did have a lovely afternoon being British cliches:

Drinking lukewarm Pimms
Eating scones with clotted cream
Watching the rowing
Wearing a hat

All in the rain...



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