Welcome to my 100th blog post. I’d like to celebrate by telling you an embarrassing story. It happened at a recent kindy mums’ dinner and involves topics I decided were appropriate for regaling the table after four glasses of verdelho. Like how I’d been caught short at the last kindy mums’ dinner and had a wee behind a tree on my walk home. Or that “since it’s a mums’ dinner”, I thought I’d bring “the girls” along (with accompanying heft of my boobs in very-low-cut top for emphasis). There was much jolly japing towards the end of the night about me making sure to use the bathroom before leaving the restaurant. Ha-ha, I assured the assembled crowd, it’s all under control. And it was, at first. I wandered past a late-night road-repair crew and marvelled at their insouciance, digging and tarring and swivelling their “daymaker” spotlights into bedroom windows at 11pm. I decided I’d be the fumiest of fuming fumers if they did it outside my house at 11pm. But then, as I approached the scene of my previous crime, I started to get all niggly in the bladder department. I passed the offending tree and thought, “no, no, it’s OK, I’ll make it this time” and “wow, that tree isn’t as discreetly placed as I thought”. I quickened my pace and turned into the long street that leads to my house. About halfway down the hill I had to run, pretty fast. I extracted my keys from my purse as I ran, readying them to plunge straight into the front door. I dashed past the empty carport, briefly thinking, “My god! Someone’s stolen the car!” before remembering, “You left it at the restaurant, you silly, sozzled bint.” And then, relief! Finally, at 23.23, I fell into bed. At 5.30am, a very noisy, hungry baby magpie woke me and the chooks. Husband had forgotten to shut the chooks into their nesting box, so they emerged and added their own cacaphony to the morning. I wobbled downstairs and let them out, hoping it would shut them up (but I don’t think chooks understand “shhhhhh! shhhhhh!”). Then I wobbled 30 minutes across the suburb to pick up the car. I was tired, my head hurt, and I really wished I hadn’t told the wee story. No more verdehlo gargling for me at kindy mums’ dinners. Fortunately there won’t be any more kindy mums’ dinners, because Sprog 2 finishes kindy in five weeks time. No, I take it back. It’s not fortunate. I’m a bit emotional about it. My baby is growing up. She’ll even be able to say “r” soon. Her beloved teacher won’t “wock” for much longer. Sniff. I’ll miss that.
TONIGHT’S DINNER: We’re entertaining. I’m doing my lamb racks with mint sauce. I used the vouchers Husband “won” at the school auction to buy nibbles at an expensive deli and meat from a butcher. I felt guilty about handing over the vouchers, so I compensated by spending double their value in each establishment. Which sort of defeats the purpose. But we do have some excellent cheeses, a packet of weird chocolate Pringle-like things and enough “pure” beef sausages to feed an army (I wonder what’s in an “impure” beef sausage?).