Of Pearls and Print.

I have been chastised for my feeble and pathetic approach to blogging and have resolved to try harder.  I have also resolved to drink less gin and go to the gym though, neither of which are likely to happen, so don't hold your breath.

All the jolly, festive things I could have blogged about are no longer pertinent, as I was extremely busy over the festivities working my way through the 51 bottles of wine the DC had thoughtfully purchased to numb the pain of Christmas with the TQ. 

Suffice to say that in a break with tradition, I did not end Christmas Day crying in the garage with a bottle of Baileys for company, declaring my hatred of humanity in general and my family in particular.  This year I decided to cry in the dining room instead, due to the garage roof blowing off.  I must say the dining room proved a much better choice, having a) heating b) an armchair and c) lots of other booze as well as Baileys, and I think I shall make that my default flounce location in future.

In other news I have binned off the PTA, hurrah, such fun, joy of joys of joyous joys!  I am free as a bird to tell anyone and everyone to fucking fuck off as far as they fucking can, to my black, little heart's content.  Or I was, for about a week, when my desire to meddle, do good and annoy people all at the same time overcame me, and I signed up to help with the local newsletter ("It's not a newsletter Cassandra, it's a proper newspaper"  Despite it being only twelve pages long, six of which are obituaries, and only issued quarterly). 

This is not as dire as it sounds.  The newspaper is run by a coven of fritefly fritefly Grande Dames, who rule the village with an iron fist.  The good thing about associating with them is that I am young and sprightly by comparison, and also I don't have to explain why I talk like a BBC radio programme from 1932, because as far as they are concerned, that is how everyone should speak, and if you don't, you are a ghaaaaaastly oik, or one of the staff. 

I swathed myself in pearls upon pearls and draped many layers of cashmere about myself for the first meeting.  I drew the line at tweed, lest they thought I was taking the piss, but on reflection, I could totally have got away with it.  I perhaps overdid the pearls and cashmere slightly though, as I may have been a bit bling for the dowagers, judging by a few of the 'looks' cast through their lorgnettes.*

The meeting was blissful blissikins.  They know everything about everyone (I was slightly worried what they might know about me), and it turned out we all hate the same people.  Much of the meeting was devoted to how much they could publish about secret planning applications for the enclave, which may sound dullsville, but we do adore a good planning ding dong out here in the country.  My eyes must have grown saucer like and my jaw slack with wonder at the gossip being revealed, because eventually Clarissa felt compelled to snap "You realise all this is confidential Cassandra, and you must be extremely discreet" and I slumped disconsolately against Dorothy's divine silk cushions and resumed wondering how much her house was worth. 

I did however stun them with the revelation that I could do spreadsheets, which seemed to them a thing of wonder, and I was thus deemed worthy to be accepted into their number.  I twirled my pearls in acknowledgement of the honour bestowed upon me, and spoilt the moment rather by choking on a crisp.

*OK, maybe they didn't actually have lorgnettes, but in my head they did!