Day 132
Picture the scene - I had painted a fabulous string of onions around the neck of Steve's T-shirt, with snails crawling around the hem and up his chest, and felt-penned stripes all over. It was hanging up looking great. I had decided on my own outfit for the French party - a red split skirt, topped with a white t-shirt and scarf tied round my neck, big black belt, black tights and peeptoe courts. Very ooh la la. Just had to make the skirt, and glue something into the shoes to stop me falling out of them (bought them when my feet were swollen, don't ask).
I found some red material in pieces, which I could sew together to be just big enough and then I had a brain-wave. I have a knee length red satin nightie. I tried it on, pulling the neckline down to my waist, and it fitted as a skirt really well. All I would have to do was split up one of the side seams, a little bit of sewing (ten minutes, no more), and Bob's your Uncle, red sexy skirt.
All was going to plan until I came to iron the newly split seam flat. Iron wouldn't bloody work. I've told you before about how electrical things don't work in my presence (something to do with the karma of having an electrician for a dad, I think), so I shouldn't have been surprised. But every cloud has a silver lining and my silver lining is called Denise.
She lives across the road and makes costumes for TV, film, and the stage. She's currently rustling up fabulous twenties outfits for the Welsh National Opera, so I knew she'd probably be home, and definitely have a working iron. Which she did, but I also came away with three stripey t-shirts and five pairs of shoes to try on, and a new haircut! After that my outfit looked fantastic, I was thrilled to bits. I added pearl stud earrings and a whacking great, Chanel-style charm bracelet thing, and I was good to go.
Now here's the thing - when Steve came home and the iron worked perfectly for him, I should have heeded the warning that my body was even more out of whack than usual. I knew my hormones were all up the spout and the PMS was killing, but I sort of forgot how much that all affects my brain. I was so delighted with our costumes and excited about the party I didn't notice that my thinking was about as straight as George Michael doing a slalom.
Roll forward in time. When I go to parties, I can get pretty merry, but I rarely get drunk to the point of getting a hangover. This is because after I've had two or three glasses of wine my body naturally starts to crave water or orange juice, because I feel dehydrated. I don't drink caffeine, only water with lemon juice in it most of the time, so I'm very attuned to the water content in my body. Therefore, I don't have to think about what I'm drinking, or count the glasses or anything.
Usually.
Not this time.
The first sign I ignored was when I went to the loo. Knowing that all the straps and the top part of my nightie were simply tucked carefully into the top of my tights, then covered with the big belt, I had been putting off going, because of the hassle of getting it all straight again without a mirror. So concerned was I about this, that I forgot to pull down the thong I had on under my tights for modesty purposes (having eschewed big pants over the top, not wanting the VPL under the satin), and peed straight through it.
So I had to struggle with the tiny ankle straps on the beautiful borrowed shoes (which I'd had to cut my toe-nails to fit into, but that's fashion for you), wriggle out of my tights, find somewhere to hide my pants until I came back later with my handbag, and get all dressed again. I should have noticed that I was none too sober by the amount of time this took, but it still didn't register.
When I left the bathroom there was a lady standing there who asked what all the jingling was about - the charm bracelet had been broadcasting my activities the whole time. Rather than her thinking I was a bit odd, I told her all about peeing my pants and having to hide them, which seemed the obvious thing to do at the time, then for some unknown reason, once I had told one person, it seemed natural to tell everyone else! Oh God!
At some point I thought I ought to eat something so I went to find the food table at the far end of my mate's long, thin corridor of a kitchen. This entailed squeezing past all the booze and queueing up by the guys doing the shots, who thrust a glass into my hand and ordered me to knock it back in one. I have no idea why this seemed a good idea at the time. Or the shot after that. Or why, when I finally reached the food table I was strangely dazzled by the brightly lit, multi-coloured, punch fountain.
When I got home, I mostly slept in the bathroom. I remember pulling a pillow out of the airing cupboard and wrapping a towel round me whilst still clutching the toilet bowl for safety.
Nuff said.
I awoke with a thundering hangover, a vitamin C deficiency, and a distinct impression that I needed to apologise to a LOT of people. Steve thought it was very funny, especially as I didn't stop shaking until about four in the afternoon. He particularly enjoyed describing how I looked more and more dishevelled as the evening wore on, the swine. I think I cuddled rather a lot of strangers. At fifty I really should know better, and most of the time I do, but that night all I can conclude is that the lights were on, but nobody was home.
It was an absolutely brilliant party though. Apart from the sea of berets and striped t-shirts, there were French maids, can-can dancers, mime artists, Asterix, an Inspecter Clousseau, and Maurice Chevalier. Can't wait for next year.
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