Last night, our nicest friends had a summer barbecue. Just the Usual Suspects, just the Usual Discussions, about the Usual Things and  making the Usual Plans.  A comforting and familiar routine  greatly appreciated and lovingly embraced. fficeffice" />

Now, it’s Bank Holiday Monday. The original mayday celebration that you can either treat as an old-fashioned pagan celebration or as the left-wing solidarity-to-the- workers holiday.  So you can decide how you want to start your day. Either  bringing in the mayflowers, followed by a dance around the maypole on the green, or with a rousing  chorus of  ‘The Red Flag’.

 Or you can wander blearily downstairs clutching your mug of Earl Grey after a rather late evening  to find three large hairy men in your living room unloading teddy bears  from the car into your cellar. Luckily, despite being in my  déshabillé,  I  had at least thrown a wrap on so it wasn’t quite as shocking  as it could have been.  It turns out that the Husband had taken a phone call from Russ Bear asking if we could store some  precious teddies for him and could he come round  this morning?  So I  was forced to play hostess for an hour  without my usual accoutrements of hair, make-up,  shining wit or even clothes. Thank goodness  I had at least  painted my toenails yesterday……

 It seems to have been a busy few days for us all.  I left for Birmingham on Friday after  being ministered to by Maurice. Who,  quite frankly, appears to treat MY hair as if it was his. I have resisted his  suggestions to cut it shorter, resisted his ideas for  red streaks and  now he appears to take any  effort of mine to dress my own hair as a personal affront. I arrived with my hair pinned up in a large Japanese clasp. This was immediately whipped out with a hissed  comment of  ‘Ooh there’s a whiff of mutton about that’.  Like all women, desperately attempting to hide the ravages of time, I meekly submitted to his attentions and promised never to  wear it again. But at least he   approved of my travelling outfit.

I was met at the station by a  lovely colleague, Mr W, whom,  (after a few years of training) now fully believes that I cannot manage to get from  my station  with my luggage to my hotel. And he graciously permitted me to  give him a drink in payment while I changed for the evening.  A quick phone call to Mr H announcing ‘The Diva Has Landed’ and off we went to celebrate his forthcoming sabbatical.   We were joined by colleague Mr P, ex-colleague Miss H and another lovely young boy of our acquaintance. Sadly Mr W & Mr P had family commitments and merely drank, kissed us and left, leaving the four of us to gossip, before heading off to a cocktail party in the fabled land that is… Mosely.

    Lots of interesting people there.  Lots of my type of people there. Writers and their ilk. Interesting discussions and of course, at a cocktail party slated to last  from 8 –11pm, I left at 1.30am.* My entourage decided to  come with me and we  were in that mood where you discuss everything,  don’t really want another drink,  vaguely think about going on to a club  but  in the end crash out on the beds and discuss  more things in a desultory way until the even smaller hours. I was rather freaked out to  find a relative of mine on the TV  in a 70’s film made in his heyday, so hurriedly turned him off in case he disapproved………

 Saturday was time for the healing effects of a hotel full English  breakfast before heading home.  The Husband was out all day with the partner-in-law, meeting a director who Praise The Lord! is offering option money, so I had the house to myself. 

And Quite Frankly my dears I needed the rest before it all started again. So a happy May Day to you all.

 * Just a little note here to Certain People. If you are obviously enamoured of a Certain Lady, have spent an evening trying to manoeuvre her to the  Sofa of Seduction, have expressed your willingness to talk to her  and get her alone, have flirted and  complimented, found out that the gentleman she came with is not her husband and that she is in town for one night only,  it is only gallant that one should at least offer  to walk her to a cab, instead of just  watching her leave. Ahh, so many missed opportunities that may not come your way again……

As is usual, the weather has changed yet again. On Sunday we sat in the garden until 8pm, drinking wine and enjoying the sunshine. Monday, I went out in a pair of mules and my sunglasses (and an outfit in-between of course, but you get the picture). Today, I’m back in the sturdy court shoes, blazer, long-sleeved top, hat and wrap.

 Mother rings at lunchtime – they’re shopping in town and do I want to meet her and Daddy for a coffee before they go back? I think it would be an awfully good idea and we arrange to meet in  John Lewis.

 As I ride up the escalator  I see Mummy before she sees me and I am suddenly, terribly afraid. I see her,  not through my eyes, but as an outsider, a total stranger would see her. She’s old. And little and frail. Yes, she looks at least ten years younger, yes, she’s certainly dressed well - not in that awful polyester baggy combo most OAPS seem to favour -  in silks and linen and with discreet makeup  but ohh I suddenly see them  for what they are.

 Daddy still towers over her, he’s not stooped or hunched, but I notice he’s peering over his glasses at me and he swaps them over to read the menu.

 It’s an awful thing, a reminder of how mortal we all are and how, eventually, all things must end and YOU are going to be the older generation. We talk about inheritances, Aunty Pam’s will and their (only recently made) will.

So obviously, after coffee, the only thing to do to add some fun  and colour to life, is to spend a happy  hour in the hat department. The new season stock is in and Mummy and I   spend time trying them on and deciding which outfit they will compliment. I suddenly stop still and stare. I have seen the love of my life.  I reverently reach for  The Hat of Hats and place it on my head. It is perfect, it is cheeky, and it is stylish. It is the millinery equivalent of a  flirt and a wink.  It is also, sadly, £179 and I put it back

 And according to Daddy, It’s just like Robin Hood.

 But oh yes, that hat will be mine.

One day.

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 As the late, great Estée Lauder said:  “No woman is ugly, there are only women who either do not believe in them selves or do not try”

 Well I’m a trier and a believer. I sit there in my dressing room in front of the mirror, plucking and primping, moisturising  and exfoliating, holding back the years with a rainbow of palettes.  I shave, I wax, I clean. I use face packs of mud, of aloe vera, of Dead Sea salt. I never, ever forget to take my makeup off and I moisturise  last thing at night, after a bath or shower  and always under makeup. I haunt Clinique. I roam the Harrods Beauty Room, and I jealously stare through mascara’d, narrowed eyes at the 20 year old who has gone out wearing  just a slick of lip balm and some cheap perfume.

  The thing is, I know I’m letting down the sisterhood here.  I know there are much better things to do than prettify and it’s always the person inside that counts. I have been attracted to a lot of ugly, short men in my time simply because of their mind. I also realise that (thank the Lord!) I have been blessed with a brain and a wit and can hold my own against most people (but not the sports aficionados. I really neither know nor care what makes them tick. Sorry.) and that  my appearance Does Not Count  At All but still I prink.  Because. …… you know it’s all complete bollocks really. When you get over 40, people rank you amongst the invisible middle-aged. They won’t make a point of coming up to you in bar or at a party  to talk and enjoy your  wit and sparkle and repartee.  They want to be seen with the young, the good looking and in the case of men, probably with the double D’s.  I know all you blokes out there are going to protest and say you don’t and you won’t, but darlings, you do. You can be happily enjoying a conversation with me, we could be talking a blue streak, but all of a sudden, some blonde (it’s always a blasted blonde!) will walk by in a pelmet, a pair of  bosoms balanced precariously on top  of a  pair of long legs, and immediately  you’re away with the fairies. You’re talking to me sideways as you surreptitiously follow her walk. And you are consciously/unconsciously noting that she’s out with friends/on her own/ with a boyfriend/looking bored/looking upset etc*. You will probably then offer to get me a drink and will take the path past the afore-mentioned  vision and ever-so-slightly swagger as you go. Alright  then, you’ll hold your head up and your stomach in and  notice whether she notices you.

 So until all men  bow down  in Adoration of The Diva, I shall spend a bloody fortune   hiding the grey hair and the wrinkles.

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* Gentlemen of the Pink Tinge, you are excused from this diatribe. But you are still expected to  adore me.

Well darlings I appear to be temporarily in the money. The estate of my late Aunt has been settled and  the cheque arrived yesterday.

 She died  just before Christmas and left all her money to her two nieces, my sister and myself. I feel so sad about this. She died after a mercifully quick illness at the early age of 75. She did nothing with her life. She simply worked  until her retirement and lived alone with my Grandmamma. My Grandfather died before I was born and so it was just the two of them together until Granny’s senile dementia became a burden and she moved into Lilac Land. Not without a fight I might add.  Under her thumb, she effectively became the same age as Granny,   taking on her thoughts and ideals and persona,  believing that there were muggers and rapists out there, being frightened to do anything, not going out and having her whole life  revolve around home and work. They went on holiday once a year, did their marketing and always made sure they were home with the doors locked.

Any phone call made after 8.30 at night,  was answered with a panicked ‘What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’ Because of course the telephone was an  expensive instrument, used only at times of great  importance. The radio  was tuned to the local station and was on all the time,  and on the hour,  the  volume was turned up with a cry of ‘Shh! It’s The News!’   It was only turned off to watch the local evening TV news and they became more frightened with every passing year. I tried to explain that it was safe to go out, that there weren’t  passels of rogues on every street corner but they believed The News. In vain did I explain that such awful  things were reported on The News because they were relatively rare – that they didn’t report  milkmen delivering their milk safely and nicely, that Mrs  Green   went to the shops and back and Muriel Goldman went to see Danny la Rue and stayed out late in town because it was so unimportant, obvious, normal and usual.  They didn’t believe me. They insisted I got a taxi back from their house at the late hour of 7pm, they worried until I rang them when I got back home and they asked  who was meeting me at the other end if I had to go to London.

 But I suppose, despite their wasted and worried life, they were safe. Nothing happened to them, unless you count their mental anguish at what COULD happen.

When Grandmamma moved to Lilac Land, six years ago, Aunty Pam moved to a warden aided flat. She sold their house, and lived in the security of the  complex, with locks and gates and a comforting phone call twice a day to check on her and  the  weekly tea party for all residents.

 I had hoped  that not looking after Granny anymore meant that Aunty Pam would blossom out, would start gaining a few  addictions of afternoon cinema trips,  matinees and concerts or even a bingo habit. Sadly, she retreated even further inside the fortress of her own making. She would no longer make the five-minute walk to meet me for coffee at lunchtime for a trip around the shopping centre, watching me try on shoes and hats.  She never came to my house, not even with the offer of a lift or taxi there and back.  Mummy did her shopping  and sorted out her bills and I would  read her official letters  and write on her behalf.

 It’s so sad. But I think she was happy. She  wanted this and the offer of a night on the town, she knew, was always there. The last time we went out  was in August last year. It was her birthday and a Psychic Fair  was held in a local hotel. She loved these things. She believed totally in all of  the quackery  and snake oil merchants and happily spent the afternoon having readings, her palm read and her future revealed. We had tea afterwards and we took her home at 6pm – scandalously late for her but she was happy.

That’s what I’m thinking of – she was happy doing things her way and in her life.

 So now I know that for the spirit of Aunty Pam, most of the money is  being deposited for a new house next, year, I  am refurbishing the kitchen and buying a new sofa. Because that way, she’ll be in my home.

Au revoir darling. I miss you.

 I am exhausted again. I realise that despite my  fallacious youthful looks, dress and demeanour I am getting to be quite an old lady who can no longer burst out of bed after a few hours sleep and start the day’s round anew.

 Last night, my faithful walker Mr B and I attended a concert of The Animals And Friends. I was disappointed. Lovely though it is  to see fine musicians who have played for many years, know all the moves and have forgotten more stuff then the Modern Beat Combo’s of today have learnt, it was a bit sad.  You wonder why they are still flogging themselves round the halls, playing the same old hits in the same way - although still writing and recording new stuff – it’s certainly not for their fan base. And I can’t cope with Nottingham’s RCH as a venue for gigs. All seating and  only half of the stalls filled and the first few rows of the balcony. No charming aging rock chicks here,  this was full of the white-haired in their dotage that  sat staidly  and clapped. No whooping, standing or dancing in the aisles. It was so quiet  one felt  a tad embarrassed for  what the band probably felt was a lack of support. The evening did not bode well from the start. Torrential rain, I couldn’t find anything I wanted to wear,  and when I went to  collect my comps, I wasn’t on the list that necessitated a search for the (charming) tour manager while I hung about feeling  like a complete  idiot.  However, everything was arranged satisfactorily and I got   my seats and some (hopefully) lovely photographs. And it was good, old-fashioned rock n’ roll played by good musicians, which is  all one wants in the end. But I did wish that Alan Price, Eric Burdon and Georgie Fame were still around. Although doesn’t Georgie Fame play with Van The Man sometimes?

 The gig finished at the scandalously early time of 10.15 and   rather than going home early, to the shocked faces of our respective husband and wife, we walked across town to George’s bar where we shared a  bottle of wine and chatted with  George and other clientele. George insisted on playing the Ethel Merman Disco album, which so affected one Bright Young Thing that he grabbed the boa hanging up on the coat rack, and gave us a brief impromptu cabaret. Rather to the shock of Mr B I believe. Luckily, I had my camera with me and some shots were taken for posterity. Then cab home at 1am, sober and in the rain, through streets peopled by  the  bedraggled remnants of broken romances and friendships., with us wrapped up, warm dry and secure. Rather a  romantic evening really, in the  academic abstract….

 I slept until 9am today, not  even waking when Big Ron bit The Husband in the early hours for daring to want more bed space. Then a bath,  a few light household duties before I made a shopping list and ventured out into  town.  I have signed Michael Caine and  Charlton Heston photographs which need framing,  I had a birthday present for my brother in law to buy, some jewellery which needed cleaning and repairing, I wanted a handbag to match the  new  50’s outfit (something  vaguely pink I thought) and,   well….. there was bound to be a sale or two I could pop into. And ooh! I could pick up some ideas for a holiday in October. Morocco? Tunisia? Petra? You get the idea.

 Debs was due to finish work  mid-afternoon and we had vaguely toyed with the idea of seeing a film, but I was exhausted by 4pm and laden down with packages. So yes, I did get a handbag, yes, my brother-in-law has books ready to send off, Messrs Caine and Heston are  organised for the end of the month,  the jewellery was deposited,  I had  a few bags of M & S staples and an armful of brochures to juggle.  So we grabbed a cab and headed home.

However, the best laid plans of mice and Drama Queens etc… The taxi driver took a route  which we realised  went straight past the shoe wholesalers. Well this was an opportunity we couldn’t resist.  So Dear Reader, we paid him off and staggered in with the shopping. Now you may or may not believe this, but there was a sale on. Right there. It was as if it was calling to us. So  from there I bought two other handbags and ….er….. seven further pairs of shoes.  Suede pointy-toed Prada-type heels in khaki and  the same in brown, higher, suede courts with a buckle and stitching detail in black and  the same in plum, a pair of cream sandals with gold coins sewn on, a pair of denim mules and a completely mad and fun pair of bronze comfy sandals with a massive four inch heel and platform. I  feel invincible in them, like some Amazonian warrior with attitude - I am No Longer Small!

 So there you have it. No wonder I’m fit for nothing but the sofa and a book this evening.

Ahh! If only every day could be like this…..

Very brief today I’m afraid. I’m in 50s housewife mode and  have been  busy clearing out the  squalor that is my dressing room.

 There are scarves flung over the rail, handbags waiting to trip the unwary,   pashmina and wraps  drooping from hangers, lingerie on the floor and spilled face powder everywhere.  All the shoes appear to have been enjoying some kind of ‘swinging’ lifestyle and are  lying in wild abandon with a  strange partner. So I’ve polished and put away and  matched and  wiped and washed and have an ironing pile looking like the Atlas mountains (which a certain cat is eyeing up as worthy of an ascent), a pile to go to the dry cleaners and a semblance of order in my haven now.

I am greatly surprised to find that I have  …gulp… rather a lot of shoes. Yes, I’ve counted them and  (to my credit) a m slightly embarrassed by my shoe fecundity.  So I took a deep breath and have actually (sit down mow darlings) thrown a few pairs away.  You will not be surprised to learn that I shed a few tears over some of them. My darling ankle boots of 12 years standing, small Cuban heel and with a velvet cuff. Perfect for gigs and  with so many rock chick memories, But they are a little thread bare in the light of day and so, they go in the bin.  A pair of  darling high heel strappy sandals in electric blue  were easy to get rid of as they had a tendency to bite after a few hours. The black patent leather sandals with tie up straps and  marvellous diamantė scattered on the…. Well, I kept those.  A  little too vertiginous for dancing in, but great for cocktail parties. As soon as a find another frock to go with them that is.    I am not one for wearing trainers. Never have been and never will. Boring and ugly and they  add nothing to the look of an outfit. However, I did have two marvellous pairs of  what  could be classed as trainers if you stretched a point. One pair  by a company called ‘LA Gear’ which  were exactly what Annie Oakley would have worn. White leather with fringes, flat ankle boots with  little tiny sheriff stars on them. They survived the cull. Sadly a very old pair (at least 15 years old) of  Reeboks. Again white leather, but painted with  Monument Valley cacti  and Friesian cows. Oh and a  plastic Friesian cow hanging off the end of the laces. I can’t think why I bought them but they were completely and utterly fun. Sadly, they have had to go to the great shoe shop in the sky due to the cracked leather and   elderly look of them now. Well that was my foray into ‘sensible’ shoes. It was fun while it lasted.

 I have five more pairs that I shall sell, unworn and pristine that I have no recollection of what I bought them for.  I suppose they must have matched something in the wardrobe at one point, but no longer. So if anyone wants a pair of Jasper Conran purple satin shoes with diamantė buckles, you know whom to ask.

 I  shall now go proudly downstairs and announce to The Husband that I have not yet reached my optimum  number of shoes. I’m sure he’ll be relieved.

 I realise my last few posts may possibly give the impression that I am an empty-headed Drama Queen with a shopping habit.

 Well, yes… but  I also read darlings.  I’m blessed with a literate group of  friends and also one who does book reviews and so I occasionally get his cast off books. All lovely review copies and only marred by his scribblings in the margins and the occasional comment from him. One of my favourite places in the world (after ooh,  Harrods, wholesalers, George’s Bar,  and the limelight)  is Waterstones. I love the smell of the place. I love the smell of  crisp, fresh books, virgin and new, waiting for you to crack them open and dive in. In fact  (if you promise NOT to mention this to anyone…) I think that one of my fantasies must be to make love on the  American Import table. (My other fantasy involves  a wet and soapy George Clooney in my bath but  we’ll stop that thought right there)   When Tim Waterstone  first set up the  chain, I was looking for a new job. Hearing that they were opening a  branch in Nottingham, I almost applied for a job but it was the realisation that I would be saying ‘Ohh don’t bother to pay me this week, I’ll just take this  crate of books home with me” that stopped me. And working Saturdays put me off a tad. I like having two days of late nights and excess  straight after each other.

But I digress – back to the books . I have had enough of Gore Vidal recently. In vain have I tried his  fiction work. This is the third time I have picked up one of his novels and attempted to get through his shameless mouthing off.  No more. He is henceforth banished. ‘Empire’ and ‘Hollywood’  may well be   fine  literature but as far as I’m concerned it’s just a thinly disguised rant about politics, colonialism, warfare and finance. Now I love his essays, I admire his stance and bravado but as a fiction writer, he sucks.*  This happens  in other ways too. I adore Norman Mailer. I loved ‘Harlot’s Ghost’ and the ‘Executioner’s Song’ (incidentally a fine film too, starring the ever rugged and handsome Tommy Lee Jones) but  once he starts writing non-fiction and essays and polemics I want to smack him over the head.

 At the moment, I’ve got three books on the go. ‘War Paint’, (see here) the story of Helena Rubinstein and Elizabeth Arden who were rivals to the end, I’m re-reading ‘The Remains Of The Day’  (see here) because I adore his buttoned-up, repressed  characters and  his use of language and ‘Mabel Stark’  (here)  because I loved ‘Carter Beats The Devil’  (here)  and this seemed  very similar. Books are  what the Husband and I enjoy together, always . He may not be up for shopping trip or the cinema (he’s got to be in the mood for that) he may not enjoy the same music as I  (in fact I believe the term ‘’Bloody Hippy’ has crossed his lips upon occasion)  but  we can happily spend an afternoon   enjoying bookshops.  And no holiday is complete without deciding on our book lists and the trip to buy a few more for the journey. We may have our own foibles about reading trash – he has a problem with my  hard SF stuff and I cannot believe he’s reading yet another bad thriller but there’s one thing we totally agree on.  Rainy Sundays, dinner in the oven,   and the opposite end of the sofa with cat in between and our new books.

 It’s almost as good as shoe shopping…..

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* Incidentally, in my late teens, I had terrible problems  getting Gore Vidal, Vidal Sassoon and Siegfreid Sassoon sorted out in my head.  I  couldn’t believe that Siegfreid managed to fight in the Great  War and then set up a  successful chain of hairdressers! I had visions of him  going ‘over the top’ armed only with  curling tongs  and a blow dryer. And as for that   ‘Great American Novelist’  doing adverts for  shampoo, well the world was a strange place in  my opinion….

Well dear Reader, it seems such a long time since I spoke to you all that I feel I’m quite out of practice. It’s not because I’ve tired of you, merely that I’ve been a bit busy. And   because of my flagrant and frequent shoe buying recently I’ve felt the guilt enough to  attempt the North face of The Ironing pile (the Hard route – without gin) in an effort to appease The Husband.  So I have closed the door on the  office and have merely stored up my anecdotes for next time. But rest assured that tomorrow and Saturday I should be back  on sparkling form.

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 As an aside, I went to Birmingham yesterday  and had the same  problems as usual. Yes, darlings, People Who Have Never Seen A Hat Before.  I’m not sure whether to be  shocked at their ignorance, amused at their child-like wonder or  annoyed at the social injustice that means  there are some terribly deprived people out there who have Never Seen A Hat.

 After my appointment I met a fellow Blogger – Chaotic by   name – and I was pleased to  see that the conversation soon turned round to shoes. Behold The Power of The Drama Queen……………

 And another brief note from me, recent photographs from social activity.

I’m a little upset that Mr H looks better in my hat than I do.  He gives a depraved yet-oh-so-young air of  decadence to it.

Actually, I'm a little concerned that's becoming a habit. I wander over to Brimingham, drink too much, stya up late and Mr H wears my hat.

Ah well.  Irrating habit to some,  comforting ritual to others....

 And the other photograph shall be titled: The Man Who Didn’t Even Offer To Walk Me To  a Cab.

 Ladies, be warned if this man is at your party…..

Have you noticed my dears,  how  trends and ideas tend to  disappear quicker than a glass of gin in the Miss Mish Household?  I wonder if it’s a sign of today’s  throwaway society,  a   nod and  a wave to the  art of conspicuous consumerism? You enjoy something briefly, toy with it,  toss it aside and  then move on to the next new and exciting thing (but enough of my love life…)

 Witness The Karma Army, a marvellous idea of people making every Friday  Good Friday by  visiting  Random Acts of Kindness upon total strangers. The  idea being  that this would encourage  the visited-upon to perform their own RaoK, it would snowball and every Friday  would  see people attempting to outdo each other in graciousness, everyone would be happy and the world would be a much better place for it.  I agreed with the principle. One should generally be nice to people and help out in what way you can. I’ve paid people’s bus fares, given them the odd bit of change in a shop when people are short,  given away the rest of my tube rider and I always, always give up my seat to the  aged, pregnant or infirm. Or anyone in need  practically. (Yes, I get to stand most of the way into town these days)  I do that in an effort to make the youngsters and students of today, who blandly  and blindly sit there, sprawled across seats oblivious to the world with their walkmans and Ipods, that This Is What One Should Do. They  will be in need of assistance at some point,  but sadly as  that generation has believed, and has taught the up and coming generation, that one should just ignore things, walk on by, don’t interact and never do something for nothing, well I’m afraid  they’re going to be pretty much on their own.   You are  statistically unlikely to be ripped off by doing  these   little tiny  things and really, even if you are and someone has    conned you out of  a pound or two… well what have you lost? A couple of quid. It ‘s nothing in the great scheme of things. And of course, it makes you a righteous person who will probably end up being a moral pain in the arse…. But I think it does give the right in old age to  talk loudly about In My Day, I would Never etc etc….

But back to my point. This great movement, this Karma Army appears to have died a death, No longer do people wander around being nice for no apparent reason and a very cynical part of me realises that well… he’s got his book deal now hasn’t he? He’s written it, sold it, the  peak of sales has gone and  it’s not really surprising that  it’s  not at the top of his list anymore. The moment has passed  and it’s time to move on.

 And the other thing that  took my fancy, which I found fascinating and has since all but vanished was the  flash phenomenom. Not the  horrid, badly dressed local pervert in a Mac but the act of people, total strangers from all parts of the country being mobilised and coming together as one in a public place, meeting and then moving on. I’ve an awful feeling it started off as some    strange experimental theatre installation, but it seemed to gain momentum and enjoyed a fashionable moment or two.   I assume it still goes on but  it’s a bit ragged around the edges now and rather than  naked people in the Selfridges carpet department, it is a couple of dozen people in Greggs. In Swindon.

 Oh how the mighty have fallen.

 Well last night I was shocked to the soles of my (black suede, with buckle and three inch heel) shoes.

 Friend Debs and I had planned on meeting after work for  a cinema trip and an early night.  However, we very, very unwisely accepted an invitation form Miss C  (a colleague of mine) to have a quick drink after work first. It was  a lovely evening, the sun was shining and so I  acquiesced. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear……….

 Now Miss C is a lovely girl, but she is a drinker of heroic proportion and woe betide you if you try and keep up. I never do, just prefer to drink at my own pace and stop when necessary. Miss C doesn’t seem to care and has oft been carried back to my place in a cab, deposited on the spare bed with a bottle of water and  left to wake up  in strange surroundings…. That’s the problem, with the young upon occasion, their hangovers are mere  moments of pain that they extinguish with a fried breakfast, ibuprofen and a pint of Stella.  They tell tales of epic drinking and exclaim  long and loud about how drunk they were and how they can’t remember where they were or most of what happened during the latter part of the evening.   As befits a Drama Queen, if I have a hangover,  I can’t cope all day. I merely want to lie in bed and moan, I promise never to drink again and really, am fit for nothing for three days or so. It is usually a week before I can cope with  anything more than one glass of wine and I prefer not to  have even that.

 However, as I said,  it seemed such a lovely idea last night. We wandered  over to the Playhouse bar and sat outside enjoying the sun, gossiping and enjoying the first real evening of summer. We were joined by Miss E, Miss S and  Miss C’s inamorata. He is a lovely young man, always nicely dressed  and sweet smelling and with a quick and ready wit. Not my type at all, not even a whiff of culture about him (miaow!) but then  he’s Miss C’s choice, not mine.  He did appear to slightly lose the will to live when we girls managed to  talk about a single trip to the  Shangri-la that is the  shoe factory one lunchtime for over  40 minutes.  But  he  wasn’t brave enough to make more than a token complaint.

 He then left to join some colleagues for a drink across town and left the ladies to  finish our bottles of wine.  Miss C,  well into her party mode feeling,  spent 15 minutes  asking, begging, persuading and pleading with the rest of us to go on somewhere else.  So, worn down by the relentless pressure, we agreed.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear……

 She    had an idea of going to a place not frequented by  this particular Drama Queen before. A place called ‘Via Fossa’  I shall NOT be going back there again.  My horror at learning that she wanted to WALK there    was nothing compared to my horror when I  entered the place. You will not be surprised to hear that I was the only person in a hat. The only woman, wearing a long grey Jill Sander coat and with  a good handbag.  At first glance, it appeared to be peopled by  clones.   I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see the influence of ‘Brave New World’ classes of Alpha’s and Beta’s et cetera were it not for the blindingly obvious  fact that literature was not what  they were there for.  The men seemed to be wearing  striped shirts, jeans or chinos and with  short bristly haircuts. There were also the grey-haired men of a certain age, eyeing up the young flesh (and I don’t mean in a Pink sort of way)  and no doubt hitting on the  more drunken women.  The women appeared to be wearing  tiny denim mini-skirts ,  backless white tops, enormous hooped earrings and  strangely,  cowboy boots of all things. And appeared to be drinking brightly coloured things out of bottle.   Then things started to go downhill. There was nowhere to sit, outside was packed  and the volume of music  - in a pub! –  made conversation  impossible  unless one shouted. There appeared to be  a DJ in there, playing old songs from the 80’s that I’m sure were released well before the clientele was born.  The wine was foul. We stayed for  thirty minutes and then scooping up Debs and Miss S (who was becoming ill) I left in a cab, desperately attempting to  shake off its dreadful miasma.. Debs and I  thankfully, blessedly, met  The Husband and The Usual Suspects in a local pub, where the conversation was flowing, discussion was  encouraged  and the gin was served in  a glass.

 We left to walk home, I a little unsteadily due to the lateness of the hour and the possibility of  a glass too many, but the walk home in the cool night air was  gratefully welcomed.

 So tell me all you bright young things who hit the town a regular basis – is that what it is like? Is this the purgatory you subject yourself to every weekend? Oh please don’t send me out there again.

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