This is a picture of us just standing. You should have seen us dancing! The floor was packed. The Bollywood Night was the best fun.
So, Claire sighed crossly at me and said she had something very serious to say. She was driving me along in her new loaned bright blue Mini with a big bulls-eye on the roof (I know, a last-ditch attempt to keep reality at bay methinks) so the thrill of it meant I didn’t pick up on her tone. She said, ‘You’ve been overdoing it. You must calm down and take it easy and not get ill.’
‘I haven’t really,’ I protested. ‘It’s just The Boyfriend and the Bollywood Night happened to coincide. And I happen to be on the committee for both of them. And it is flute exam time which involves a lot of zooming about and last-minute tweaking tis true. And Fred is away in New York so he can’t put the bins out.’
Claire was not lolling like what she normally does. I twigged she’d gone all serious. Disapproval radiated around the Mini. I felt like I’d skived off school and the deputy head was telling me off. ‘Just learn to say no,’ she said sternly.
Bugger. I don’t want to say no. I hate saying no. ‘No people’ give me the shivers. Anyway after a bit she cheered up and we experimented with the Mini’s interior multi-coloured lighting and stopped for a pub lunch.
BTW The Boyfriend was absolutely fantastic. Here is a pic of the lovely Bash backstage:
So today, Miss Benyon checked up on the boob. ‘It’s gone bobbly,’ I told her. It has, a bit like an old jumper in places. ‘Is it necrosis of the flesh? Will I have to have it sawn off?’
‘I have seen lots of necrosis of the flesh,’ she said, gosh brave woman, ‘and this looks nothing like that, honestly.’
‘It’s still swollen,’ I told her. It is. Bloody enormous. I had to go and buy the most humungous bra you ever saw.
‘That will take a few weeks to go down,’ she said.
On her way out the door, she spotted my dodgily hennaed hand. ‘What is that?’ she asked.
I hid it behind my back. ‘Bollywood Night,’ I replied guiltily. ‘I had to go,’ I said in response to her reproachful look, ‘I’m part of the Task Force. They needed me.’
‘You know,’ she sighed, ‘I get the feeling you are possibly overdoing it. Just SLOW DOWN.’
Bloody Hell. OK. I will then. I might not listen to my poor friend but I litrally will do anything for Miss B-sigh-with-admiration-and-joy, let’s be honest.
I texted Claire while waiting for the bus. ‘Miss B says same as you I have to slow down.’
She texted back ‘I should be a surgeon.’
Must admit, have been bursting into tears for no reason at all. Yeah, honestly, pathetic. I think it’s the pills. Four different antibiotics four times a day. Drives one potty very quick. And puts you off your food: for me, misery of the first degree. Had the last Herceptin today. For the first time ever, I lay down on three chairs while waiting, so I can’t be right. There was a bald woman opposite me and she was so brave and cheerful while having her horrible chemo I suddenly felt a dreadful pang of pain for her, and I started to boo-hoo again. Dang! It’s like I’m back at square one emotionally. Cue a visit to Dennis for some angel contact. Need to be restored to self.
The Gin Club turned up on Sunday morning to pick up horse food on their way to do the ponies. ‘Don’t get kicked,’ I warned Mad Lucy as she looked a bit too glammed up and mascara-ed for ponies and that sort tend to be the ones who get a hoof-print on their thigh. Judgemental, moi? Non. Pas du tout, just speaking from experience.
‘No, horses I can do,’ she claimed. ‘Spent my teenage years down the stables.’
Even Jet-setting Jill was all wellied up. I had to head off to clear up Bollywood detritus, so I waved them off fearing electrocution at the very least.
I have a little flute pupil called Inez who has accompanied us to the ponies at least once per holiday since she was about five. Every time I would remind her that it would hurt if she touched the fence, but she never believed me. ‘It’s not on!’ she would claim, merrily. ‘See!’ She’d grab it in her fist and recoil like she’d been shot. Then she would burst into tears. I guess it’s a valid experimental hands-on method of learning. The last couple of times she has come along, (the fifth year she has been coming), she didn’t touch it. Halleluia, praise the Lord, I do believe she’s got it.
I went today and laughed because all the poo-picking instruments have been laid out in a tidy line. There is not a speck of dung in the field. The ponies look clean and fluffy and rather surprised.
I received a message from WordPress saying ‘Happy Blogging Anniversary!’ Yes, it’s been a whole year of writing. 84 posts. This makes me dribble with excitement because it means Claire’s Birthday Turbo-Pimms Cauldron and thereby Pissed Trampolining Spring Giggles cannot be far off. Oops, I keep forgetting, I am not to overdo it: repeat like a mantra. It’s harder than it looks to remember this, if irrepressibility is your default setting and fun looms anywhere nearby.
And the very very exciting news is that the editor of our local paper, who was the judge of the short story competition, has requested a fortnightly column on ‘Adventures of the Gin Club.’ He he what merry japes are to be had. I’ve already sent him one on our trip to the Cock Inn but haven’t heard back. I think due to dodgy puns (well, would you be able to resist with a name like that?) it has no doubt gone to his spam… or it was just too rude and he has had second thoughts. Anyway, will keep you updated.
Must rest now, like an old biddy! Think of me, lying there, bored out of tiny mind….