It started with tears and a farewell speech to my litigation colleagues and ended with tears of laughter because I didn't know how to play Snap (really)
I was presented with a beautiful bunch of flowers on Wednesday in anticipation of my birthday the next day which meant that I pretty much spent the rest of the afternoon drifting aimlessly around the office inbetween catching up on blogs that I hadn't checked for about an hour. Once I had disposed of the boring working day I was treated to moules and enough carbs to feed an athlete for 4 marathons. Full ones. 26 miles. Yeah. Let's not think about that.
I kicked the next day off with a heart attack brunch. And a lovely cup of tea. I won't lie. The waffle got the better of me and I finished around the halfway mark. The rest of the day was filled with some intense Roman history lessons. It was thoroughly enjoyable. I even became MadameB for an hour or so. The difference wasn't massive. I just hated school children more and wanted to sit down whilst I watched about how Verulamium was burnt to the ground. And now there is a layer of ash in the soil if you dig deep enough. I've lost you haven't I? Perhaps you had to be there.
Back on track, I got absolutely slaughtered in the evening time courtesy of Jackie O. No. Not the late wife of John F Kennedy who was classically beautiful with timeless fashion pieces spawning the infamous Jackie O sunglasses. Jackie O who originally hails from North London, has moved to the suburbs to live with her boyfriend (or so she claims), who is a wanker (or so she claims) and had had an argument with (or so she claims) and so she used his credit card to buy me a bottle of champagne. I'll level with you. It was not until the most sober of our tribe pointed out that the chances were there was no boyfriend and the credit card was probably stolen from some schmuck on the train as he had seen her pickpocketing there before and I then realised that perhaps Jackie O wasn't the life and soul of the (champagne) party and perhaps she was a Bad Person. Ah well. The damage was done. Let's drink some champagne! Once we were done we checked our respective bags and pockets and decided to leg it whilst she was chatting to some other schmucks, our wallets and phones all still present. She was beginning to bore me in any event. There's only so many times you can be told that you look like Billie Piper before the sad truth begins to grate. I'm told I was quite the delight on the way home. I do remember singing Florence and the Machine very loudly on the motorway.
The next morning was not a write off because of my hangover. In fact, I was quite zen. It was a write off because of the Riddle of the Razor. We are a house of 4. All of us have either a Mach 3 or a Venus handle. They're interchangable and we often just change the blades and away we go. On that Friday morn I could not find a handle for a razor for love nor money. I searched high and low even widening my search to the downstairs bathroom (which is preposterous if anyone HAS had a shave in there). Thirty minutes later and my search was not fruitful. I had to think outside the box. PereB is mental enough to decide one day to throw all the razors away. I began to imagine his inner monologue immedately:
Dese razors offend me. I've never liked dem dare razors. I'm going to trow dem all away and tell no one. Hahaha, da japes.
That was it. I was immediately on the phone. The conversation went something like this:
Me: Have you thrown away all the razors?
Me: Well there isn't any fucking razors and I've been looking for 30 mins
Him: The blades are in the normal place
Me: Yes. I have blades. I need a FRIGGING HANDLE TO PUT THEM IN
Him: Where's all da lady's handles? Da pink ones. And blue ones.
Me: I DON'T KNOW THAT'S WHY I'M RINGING YOU
Him: Hmm. Well, I don't know. I do have a spare Mach 3 handle
Me: Do you? Where?
Him: At home in Granny's house. (I feel it prudent to point out at this juncture that "home" is Ireland. As in Eire. As in ACROSS THE IRISH SEA)
Exasperated I hung up and rang SoeurB. She was useless as she was hungover like a bastard. I then left a voicemail for MereB. She rang back saying PereB had probably thrown them all away for a joke. I'm my mother's daughter make no mistake. By this point I had been thrown 45 minutes off schedule. I decided to take a deep breath and and have a look for some veet. Veet - the hair removal cream that pretty much everyone I know uses for their lady garden whilst the makers try to fob us off that it's for your legs in the ads. Before I had time to contemplate such things I found a disposable razor in my make up bag. I thanked the Lord for my find. But then shook my fist at the air asking why he hadn't seen fit to throw this curveball in to my path a bit earlier. Say, 45 minutes earlier.
And then I was off on the train checking in to my swanky hotel which would be home for the next 2 days. Having dumped our stuff MonsieurD and I made our way to the IMAX for Alice. I thought it was quite good. Alas, the other review from our quarter went something along the lines of, "A bit shit". You can't have it all ways. Then I was brought to Selfridges for present of "anything I want". A lesser woman would have rinsed this hard. But I am not a lesser woman. Also, I like to have my beau talk to me as opposed to glower at me whilst he thinks about all the things you could buy with the cost of a Chanel handbag. So we made our way to the third floor and I saw it, my present..........in the hand of another lady. I cursed her (no really, I did - that fucking bitch, I can't believe that she took the last fucking t shirt, WHAT AM I GOING TO BUY NOW?) Luckily I am both blind AND retarded and I found the fucking t shirt. Basically imagine me on a t shirt, speaking French, with owls on and an upside down rabbit for the craic. Yes. It's a t shirt made for me. Thank you Mr Jacobs. Like I'm saying on my t shirt - I love you. To celebrate my present success I went and ate a lot of meat, got the meat sweats and had to have a lie down.
The next night was the frolics planned for the last month. Visitors came to the swanky hotel room. Photos were taken of said room because "I'll probably never stay anywhere as nice as this". New friend, MissDx felt it only right to point out to Carrington that the swanky hotel does rooms for £1 every so often as a massive promotion so one day she might stay there. If she got a room for £1.
There was a lot of debauchery, a lot of love and a lot of winding to Chaka Demus and Pliers' classic, Tease Me. Friends met other friends for the first time, everyone got along swimmingly and the night was officially stamped success. Inevitably there were big heart to hearts (I love you, no I love you etc - Whatever you do don't fuck this up with MonsieurB - You're my best friend, you're my best friend - Can I have some cake?) along with face stuffing, indicating that the potman should put the remnants of a smashed glass in to said cake then another person offering same cake to the barman. Who was diabetic. The evening was rounded off with salt beef bagel action and I realised I'd been mugging myself off by not eating salt beef bagels for the whole of my life. That was cake no 1. Cake no 2 was of my fantastic peach of an arse. Carrington felt it necessary to clarify matters by writing nice arse on the cake. The cake was lovely. Although I only got one slice as my family saw fit to finish the whole thing today whilst I was at work. Excellent.
And to close the proceedings it seemed only fitting that the surviving stragglers eat a roast, play cards and drink orange juice topped up with lemonade by the pint. And so we did that. And replayed the evening, discussing the events and reminding one of another of the outrageous shapes which had been thrown by all present.
And then I came home and collapsed. But before I collapsed I had a think about how I had had the best birthday ever. For reasons that are too sad to go in to my birthday is a non event in my house which suits me fine. The upshot is I go out and bust a move with my friends. And for the first time I was surrounded by people who I genuinely love because they make me laugh until I have to call for some Tena Lady and because they constantly remind me of how great I am when I'm having a wobble and feeling down in the dumps because my life is less than perfect. And then I realise no one's life is perfect. But mine is pretty fucking good.
And today was the first day of the rest of my life. 18 months and it'll all be done. Phew.