It was Sprog 2’s “fun sports morning” yesterday. The school sprung it on me with a note earlier in the week. They’d even organised a coffee van to entice “parents and carers wanting something calm after all that cheering”. But it clashed with my hair appointment. I agonised for all of two seconds about cancelling the hair appointment, but my regrowth was making me look like a greying skunk.
The hair appointment lost a smidgeon of its appeal when my “stylist” cancelled due to a pulmonary embolism grounding him in London. (When I thought he couldn’t fly back because he had the sniffles I was slightly pissed, but a pulmonary embolism coupled with coughing up blood sounded serious enough to forgive.) But my “colourist” was still available so I went for it.
(I’m not sure about the rest of the country, but in Darlinghurst you have a “stylist” and a “colourist” – they are separate arts and no self-respecting hairdresser does both.)
Getting a colour with no cut still made a substantial dent in the Sprogs’ college fund. Fark me drunk. But the Irish apprentice did a lovely job on my blow-dry, which garnered much admiration at the end-of-term playdate in the park, so it was money sort-of-well spent.
Unfortunately, the talk at the playdate was who won the parents’ race and how cute it was watching the little ones compete, so a little guilt crept in. I swished my hair around to shoo it away.
At 5pm, I hoofed off to pick Sprog 1 up from a playdate at her best friend’s house (I’d offered to have the playdate at my house, but I don’t think her parents want their child in a car with me behind the wheel after I disgraced myself at dinner with them the other night … this is just me extrapolating … ignore me … I’m sure they just thought it would be lovely to have Sprog 1 over to their place for a visit.)
When I arrived at the best friend’s house, her mother looked at me like I was a Martian because apparently she’d said she would drive Sprog 1 home. (See, she was thinking, we made the right decision not letting that woman drive our precious child anywhere, she’s obviously suffering alcohol-induced short-term memory loss … I’m wildly extrapolating again …)
Sprog 1 kicked up an almightly fuss and insisted that she be driven home by her best friend’s mother, as previously arranged. This had something to do with the younger sister of the best friend being at a playdate with her friend, who Sprog 1 has apparently been playing chess with in the library at lunch time (ah, absolutely no reason for me to worry about Sprog 1’s social skills, she has friends … in KINDERGARTEN despite being in YEAR THREE). So Sprog 1 was desperate to pop over to her FRIEND FROM KINDERGARTEN’S HOUSE. Sweet.
I left them to it and hopped in the car. As I drove off, I suddenly realised it meant Sprog 1’s best friend’s mother would be COMING TO MY HOUSE IN 10 MINUTES. I drove like a bat out of hell to get home because it was an ABSOLUTE TIP.
Much hyperventilation and frenzied throwing of dirty clothes into cupboards ensued. Lots of doors to pigsty/rooms were shut. A manky old piece of cheddar and some leftover hummus were whacked on the bench.
And then … I agonised over the beverage situation.
The best friend’s mother would be arriving at 5.30pmish. Roughly cocktail hour … would it be unseemly to offer alcoholic refreshments in light of our last meeting … would it be rude not to …?
I chucked a bottle of pinot grigio into one of those freeze-sleeve thingies just in case.
The best friend’s mother accepted my offer of an alcoholic refreshment and assured me again that there were no hard feelings about the other night when I said the smell of dinner made me want to barf and staggered off into the night.
Phew. I think I believe her this time.
But then, it is me, so there’s probably still a bit more internal berating to be done.
housegoeshome 
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