Dancing queen...

Oh the joys of the menopausal migraine....

Of course, I am blaming the dreaded hormone deficiency, but could it have been down to the consumption of the equivalent of my body weight in Quality Streets?  Or the Prosecco over New Year?  Or maybe the eight square inch piece of remaining Christmas cake which was polished off over four days?

Well whatever it was, it caused quite a ruckus in the Bird House, as I floated through seventy two hours on a pink cloud mainly comprised of Anadin, my special migraine tablets and bed.  The tablets I get from the doctor are pretty hardcore, and leave me with a mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage.  I did manage to get into work (not sure I actually achieved much, but like Elvis, at least I was in the building) and Master P and Master J kept the fragile fossil in the corner of the Sales Cupboard tanked up with many mugs of tea.  Talking of tea, the husband did raise the possibility that my beverage of choice might actually be the cause of my headaches.

The husband needs to keep opinions like this to himself.  If I had to make the choice between him of my PG, I'm not too sure which way I'd go.  It's possibly safe to assume that I wouldn't be getting rid of my favourite mug though...

But the pressure to get well again was really on, as a large family celebration was planned for Saturday night.  This involved a secret, five hotel rooms, all of the offspring and partners converging on said hotel, dinner, dancing and birthday cake.  I just had to be better.  Taking the bull by the horns on Friday evening, I took enough tablets to make me sound like a pair of maracas as I went up to bed, but this had the desired effect, and I was on fighting form once again yesterday morning.

The party was a great success.  My cousin had planned a surprise party for his wife's 50th birthday, and it was fantastic. It started with us all waiting inside a darkened room waiting for the birthday girl to arrive (there was much sniggering and general schoolboy humour as we waited - this is what happens when you give a hundred people a free bar and then switch the lights off).  Five hours later, it ended with me mincing up the corridor with my shoes in my hand complaining that the carpet must be on fire as my feet were burning.  

Nothing to do with the jiving, pogo-ing, Madness dancing, twisting and Macarena-ing I had been doing for the last five hours, accompanied with several glasses of something lovely and one/some/none of my children at any one time.  There was also a very silly slow dance with the husband.  This was the only slow number of the night I should add - since when did the 'Erection Section' of the 1970's disco become so unimportant.  I'm sure that there used to be at least three or four slow dances at the end of the night where you could be clamped to the pigeon chest of the spotty oik you've fancied all summer.

As we left last night, I said to the DJ that it was a brilliant set he'd done and that we'd all loved it.  Can't say my feet are that grateful today though.

But what I am grateful for is my family, and not just my immediate family, the husband and the four Herberts who come home and raid my fridge every now again.  To like and love the family you don't see that often is an absolute joy.

We'll have to do this again soon.  

Once my feet have recovered...