21...

On Saturday night, I swapped my walking boots and shorts for kitten heels and sparkly top.  Why this sudden change, I hear you ask.  Well, believe it not, my baby turns twenty one this week.  This would be son number two, he with the penchant for law and an inside leg measurement (he works part time selling suits in case you're wondering whether this is a new fetish).

He's come down from the North with his good friend Mr R and together with daughter number one and Del Boy, daughter number two and Jolly Sock Man and son number one and Little Miss Tiny, we were quite a party heading out to the fleshpots of Oxford for a meal and some dancing.

I'd book two taxis to get us all into town, and I was in the second taxi with the birthday boy, his friend and the husband.  Now the taxi driver was not the sharpest tool in the box (when they were giving out brains, he thought they said 'train' and asked for a slow one) and there was conversation going on in the back which he made one comment on, which rendered us all useless for the remainder of the journey.  (If you are of a sensitive disposition or easily offended, it might be an idea to close this page down now and get yourself a cup of tea).

The conversation involved one of the husband's frequent forays into his memory, as he tried to remember 'some bloke called Michael who blows a trumpet'.  Well between us, this is how the conversation went...

SN2 - 'Michael McIntyre?'
H - 'No, and he doesn't play the trumpet anyway'.
Mr R - 'Michael Jackson?'
Me -'He's dead and as far as I know never played any instruments, especially the trumpet'.
SN2 - 'Michael Jordan? Michael Fish? Michael Flatley?'
Me - 'Now you're being silly.  Any other clues as to who you're thinking about, other than the fact he blows a trumpet?'
H - 'He was in Two and a Half Men' 
Me - 'George Michael?' (I'd had several pre-drinks before leaving, which explains the complete misunderstanding of the first name needing to be Michael)

To which the driver said, in a completely deadpan voice and completely oblivious to the horrific undertones of his words....

'Well 'e's dead too, so 'e won't be blowing anyfing soon'.

I'm surprised that he didn't kick us out at the Dorchester mini roundabout, such was the noise in the car, but we eventually limped into Oxford where we had a fantastic meal at Dirty Bones.

It was then onto the club I frequented earlier this year.  But this time I was prepared, and was dressed more like a party girl, and less like Mother of the Bride.  Two hours of hot footing it around the dance floor, and we all fell into our beds at around 3.00am.

Well, your baby is only twenty one once...

PS  It was Michael Bolton the husband was foraging for in his brain - however, he doesn't play the trumpet, but Kenny G, who he did a duet with, does play the sax...  

Well, we got there in the end!

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