Dancing queen...

Yesterday was the first time in six months or so when I have wondered where the hell my gloves are.  There will be many early mornings like this over the next couple of weeks, until one of two things happen.  Either I'll remember where I packed them away back in April, or I'll buy another pair.  And then, sometime in February, I will find my original pair and decide that they are much warmer than the early Autumn ones I'd purchased.  I will then put the newly purchased ones away somewhere safe, and so it goes on.

You'll be pleased to hear that the Binland dinner went well, with eight of my favourite colleagues turning up for stew and dumplings.  We did try to keep the conversation away from work topics, and succeeded to some extent, but eventually, we all ended up talking rubbish.  Something which I am spectacularly good at, according to the husband.

As I cleared away the dinner party aftermath on Thursday night, I decided that the evening had been an unmitigated success. And my reason for this?  Well to start with, I had been left with half a box of Ferrero Rocher (thank you Mr W) and a barely touched box of After Eights.  I was also in possession of three more bottles of wine than I started with. This is what happens when you invite people over for dinner, most of whom have to drive themselves back home.  So yes, it was a success.

My boss, Mr W (I have tights older than him) was in Binland on Friday and happened to say how disappointed he was that he hadn't been able to make the dinner.  This was the cue for a wind up, so I told him that when he texted at 7.45 to tell me he wasn't going to get there, I couldn't answer 'because we were all dancing by then'.  His little face dropped (he loves a dance does Mr W), and then Mr G who had made it, chipped in, 'I love that pole in your lounge.  Who'd have known....'

This is how you get a reputation you see.  Before you know it, word will have gone round Binland that I'm an exotic dancer several nights a week.  Mmm, the most exotic I've ever been is having an umbrella in my Pina Colada in a bar in Cardiff (that was a night I'd like to forget).  Also, as my house was built by that well known firm of cowboy builders, Bodgitt and Scarper, I'm not sure my lounge ceiling would cope with having a generously proportioned matron swinging round on a pole in her smalls (or bigs - I'm too old for smalls)...

It might keep the dogs amused though.  Oh, and the husband.  He won't complain.

Until the ceiling needs replastering that is...