Tuesday's gone...

And onto night number two of school night shenanigans...

Tuesday night found us at a posh gaffe in Oxford celebrating the 18th birthday of my best friend's son.  I'll be honest with you, limping out of bed on Tuesday morning after the Monday night in London, I had blinked blearily at the husband and asked hm how many hours before I could get back into bed.  Turned out it was a lot more than I was hoping for (to be honest, anything more than half an hour was too long) and the day passed by in a whirl of bins and black coffee.

It's strange isn't it?  You feel utterly whomped (my new favourite word) and then you're surrounded by wonderful people, cake and loud music, and all of a sudden tired eyes are history.  Halfway through the evening, I sidled up to the husband who had been cornered by Mrs S's sister, and in the middle of a conversation about being a make-up artist (her, not the husband) I asked him whether he'd like me to drive us home at the end of the evening.  

'Oh, I'd forgotten about driving home', he said, looking slightly relieved to be talking about something which he actually understood.  His memory lapse was obvious because of the many strange shaped glasses and accompanying paraphernalia such as straws, fruit and empty syringes (told you it was posh), all of which were empty.

'Don't worry', I said, 'I've not had a drink, so I'll drive us back'.  How sensible am I?  There's no way on this beautiful earth that I am taking the risk of just one drink on a school night.  Heavy bins and a hangover?  No thank you, my friend.

And then the proverbial penny dropped...from quite some height actually.

'But we're in my truck', said the husband, the blood draining from his face.

Ah....this would be the brand new vehicle which he took delivery of last week.  The one which could house two Minis quite comfortably and which just about manages to stay on the right side of the white line on the road as it's so wide.

Well I drove us home quite successfully around midnight, although there was a close shave on the last roundabout from home when I misjudged the strength of the power steering.

He was very quiet on the way home.

Not a word.

Just some white knuckles and a few beads of sweat on his tortured brow...