On The Bonny Bonny Banks!

So the original day out, that I had spent two blog posts leading up to, was now so long ago that I can't really remember what happened, except that I burnt the sausages on the retro mini-barbecue and was declared 'A bit much' for hanging bunting around the cove where we had settled for the day.

Instead, we have the joy of today's happy trip- warning:  it has blood; it has mild racism; it has the attempted murder of more ducks.

The summer holidays have been passing in a blur of swim camp, outings, barbecues and general japes and frolics ahoy!  Not all the blur has been caused by Pimms and Sauv Blanc, but a fair amount has.

Today we betook ourselves up to the bonny bonny banks of Loch Lomond (I don't know if we took the High Road or the Low Road, as far as I know, there is only one).

Parking was a joy as ever, with me swearing profusely at the children to "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" and terrorising foreign tourists out of the way in my Mighty Honda, gesticulating rudely and shouting "J'ai un quatre par quatre" at them.  Normally it's only the Great Unwashed and old people I need to terrorise out of the way, but these bloody Games going on in the Big Town have filled the entire country with foreigners who don't understand the Fucking 4x4 rules*- Mad Ann in the Shop confided in me loudly this morning "Between you and me Alice, we've been run off our feet with strangers.  And I mean strange."

Car park subdued to my rule; Mighty Honda abandoned parked under a tree; many hoards of children chivvied to the fucking adorable deserted cove Maddy and I found many years ago; vintage deckchair erected for maximum pretentiousness; sandwiches dispensed; dog lost; dog found; dog lost and found several more times, I settled back to enjoy the sun.  I had even brought a book.  As soon as I opened it, all hell broke loose.

The Beast, who had been wading out towards the island off my Cove, along with Saff and the Hellion, somehow 'bashed his knee on a sharp rock' and started screaming about BLOOD!!!!  I had not anticipated entering the water and was therefore delightfully clad in an array of floaty florals, and had to hurtle from my deckchair and plunge into the water to rescue him. I realised as I tucked my skirt into my knickers that my phone was still in my pocket, so dashed back to shore and threw it at Farmer Boy who had declined to go into the water yet.  I flung myself back in, retucking skirt in knickers,  the fucking piece of shit £1.50 Primark flip flops broke when I attempted to wade in them, and all whilst bellowing at the fucking Terror, who thought it was a super game.

This then was the scene that awaited the jolly French family, who decided to colonise MY FUCKING COVE!  Really, if you need any more proof of Uncle Matthew's conviction that all foreigners are fiends, it is surely that they decided a good place for a picnic would be beside an insane screaming woman, flashing her pants, four vile children and a delinquent dog.

As I patched up the Beast, who continued to scream until I slapped a plaster on and the offending blood was hidden, at which point he was miraculously cured, Saff yelled "Mummy, the Terror has finally learnt to swim."

He had!  I was so proud, he had previously never gone deeper than his ankles, skipping around the shallows like a skittish maiden aunt, but he had finally taken the plunge.  He swims with determination, but little grace, uttering an unattractive snorting noise as he does, which just adds to the theory of dogs being like their owners!

None of this dissuaded the French though, so I must confess we embarked on a ruthless campaign the Duke of Wellington would've been impressed by.  The Terror was a most excellent weapon in our guerrilla warfare, as were the small and unpleasant boys, and even the morose teens.  I commend the French on their staying power in the face of our onslaught, but eventually they broke. 

They withstood the marauding dog and my loud, constant and futile attempts to call the marauding dog back.  They were stoic in the face of the bellowing small boys playing cricket very badly and noisily.  They endured the morose teenagers deciding to join the game of cricket by shouting abuse at the small boys.  But the Terror cracked them in the end.

Obviously disappointed his marauding had not been better appreciated and keen to show off his new found swimming skills, he plunged into the depths of the loch in pursuit of a large duck and her brood of ducklings.  Eventually the angry quacks roused me from my book (I had obviously tuned out the children screaming and shouting about this, as I tune out most of their bloody racket).  Feeling that letting the dog chase her with the ducklings in tow was rather unsporting, I called him off.  Remarkably, he obeyed, which makes me suspect he had literally got himself into deep water and was wondering how to get out of it without losing face. 

This did for the Frenchies, resignedly they packed up their goods and chattels and trudged off.  Le Pere Francais gave a half hearted "Au revoir" as they passed.  Five minutes later, victory secure, we decided we'd had enough and went home too.


*Rule 1- I have a fucking 4x4, so you can all just fuck off out of my way.
  Rule 2- Yes, I am fucking parking here actually.
  Rule 3- Fucking 4x4s only give way to bigger fucking 4x4s.  And tractors.

Japes and Frolics: The Prelude.

Having cleared all the Useful Things out of my car and swapped it with the DC for his sterile Volvo, containing No Useful Things Whatsoever, it was time to get ready for the splendid Outing, with many friends, that had necessitated the Great Car Swap in the first place.

This was the First Official Outing of the Summer Holidays, which meant many things had to be located which had not been seen since last summer, including, but not limited to, sun hats, picnic blankets, fishing rods and nets and my totes fucking adorable hamper.

Much swearing, sweating and stamping around in the attic, a large and cavernous space with only two temperature settings ('colder than a witch's tit' and 'hotter than fucking hell'), finally yielded the picnic blanket, the pink and blue fishing nets (gender stereotyping?  Moi?  Yeah, whatever), and the recollection that the totes fucking adorable hamper's handle had broken at the end of last summer when I violently swung it at the DC in a fit of fury because he had questioned whether I 'really needed' to take it with me on an adventure.  I had shoved it in the attic in the hope that it would magically mend itself over the winter.  It didn't.  You just can't get the fucking elves these days.

Down from the attic I commenced stamping round the garage and shed in search of the many other missing lovelinesses, whilst bellowing at children to locate sun hats; apply sunscreen; stop fighting; leave the dog alone; put pants on; put clean pants on; don't put pants on the bloody dog etc.

With everything finally located and assembled, including charcoal, fire lighters, matches, tongs and the ingredients for a delicious barbecue, I paused, puce and perspiring, beside my giant pile of necessities, to survey my offspring.  The cherubs, whose only task had been to find their hats and put on some sunscreen, and not kill each other.

"Where are your hats?" 

Saff launched into a long and convoluted explanation about why she couldn't wear/ didn't need/ had her human rights breached by a hat, which caused me to lose the will to live half way through and start sobbing in defeat.  I attempted to disguise being bested by Saff, by turning my attentions to the Beast:

"Well, where is your hat?"

"Lost"

I took a deep, calming breath.  I resolved as I took the deep and calming breath that it would not go the way of so many other deep and calming breaths and be used to power an infuriated bellow.

"Darling.  It can't be 'lost'.  Mummy put it in your drawer with the rest of your summer clothes.  Go and look properly."

"Nah.  S'no point.  S'lost."

Deeper breath.  "Darling.  Go and look for your hat right now before Mummy gets cross."

"I told you, it's LOST!"

"GOANDLOOKFORYOURFUCKINGHATRIGHTNOWYOULITTLESHIT!(deep breath)IHAVESPENTALLMORNINGGETTINGALLTHISREADYFORYOUANDALLYOUHADTODOWAS (deep breath) FINDYOURFUCKINGHAT!!"

The Beast looked back at me with an expression of wounded innocence and injustice.
"I have looked Mummy.  I really really have.  But I can't find it.  I think it's been eaten by the Sock Swamp."

Argh.  My heart sank.  My son's natural habitat is best described as 'squalor'.  At the best of times, even the kindest description of his bedroom would include the word 'fetid'; a bubbling morass of Lego, loom bands, dubious pants and solitary socks.

Recently however, a combination of his general foulness and my general indolence have led to a worsening of conditions.  With the whole end of term madness upon me, I was unable to face sifting through the piles of Lego, Pokémon, Moshi Monsters and dirty clothes to bring any sort of order to bear on the room, and he couldn't care less.  Thus, I closed the door and allowed him to go feral behind it. 

The result of this was The Sock Swamp.  Eventually, the room descended into a state even the Beast found slightly daunting.  His solution was not to tidy up however, but to simply declare the further half of the room dead to him, and to kick all unwanted items down to that end and insist he just wasn't going there any more.  This is now The Sock Swamp.  I'm pretty sure there's things growing in there.  I've heard Noises. 

Faced with the choice of a hatless child or investigating the nether depths of The Sock Swamp, it was a no brainer:

"Get in the car darlings!  Who needs hats!"

 

Working At The Carwash.

The holidays loomed.  Seven long weeks to be filled with japes and frolics.  Seven long weeks in which I must resist the urge to beat my children to death with the Complete Famous Five for complaining they are 'bored'.  Seven long weeks to be nagged about going to see 'How To Train A Sodding Dragon 2'.

It could be worse.  I could be my friend Susan, whose car has died an irrevocable death.  Her husband has decided they will buy a brand new one, but this will take weeks to arrive.  Seven weeks actually.  The exact length of the summer holidays.  Bastard.

With her plight in mind, I threw myself upon the mercy of the DC and asked if we could swap cars for a week, so Susan and offspring could accompany us on our japes.  For some reason, my darling husband drives around in solitary splendour in a large, seven seater Volvo 4x4, while I trundle around frantically piling many children and dogs into my Mighty, but only 5 seater, Honda.

The DC graciously consented to this swap, on the grounds I 'clear all that fucking shite' out of the Mighty Honda, and promised not to fill his Monstrous Volvo with equal amounts of shite.

My husband declares himself permanently baffled and appalled by the vast amounts of crap that fill my car.  What he is unable to grasp is that some weeks, his wife, her dog and his children spend an unfeasible amount of time in the car, shuttling between school runs; music lessons; tennis lessons; play dates;  golf lessons; various other extra curricular activities I force them to partake of with one eye ever upon the UCAS form, or whatever they call it these days, and mercy dashes to the vet and Majestic Wine. 

Due to the amount of time we spend in the car, there is a lot of stuff in it.  There are few scenarios to which I could not produce some useful contribution by rifling around for a while in my boot (as long as no one minds a little mould on the useful things).  I'm pretty sure if there was some nightmare apocalypse tomorrow, my children, the dog and I could leap into the Mighty Honda and take off up into the hills and live on the contents for several years. 

The DC on the other hand tries to avoid letting the children in his car; has banned food in the car (if I banned food in my car, we'd all starve), and regularly pays some lovely Polish men to hoover it all out.  He promised if I took all the crap out of my car, he'd pay the Poles to clean it all out too, and make it shiny and nice.

Loath as I was to lose all my 'useful things' out the car, I was starting to suspect he had a point.  The nice Majestic Wine boy had visibly recoiled from the interior when putting my booze in, and a Mystery Smell had appeared, which no amount of Febreeze could shift.  Last time I had a Mystery Smell that bad, I had to write the car off by driving it through a wall to get rid of it.  As that is generally not a recommended method for dealing with stinky cars, I decided I must comply.

Armed with several bin bags, I emptied out my Useful Things.  Amongst other things, I removed:

• An unopened bag of lentils dated 2010.
• A yoga mat, used twice, that I was loath to take out of the car, as it would involve admitting I had failed in my plan to become a serene, thin, yoga person, due to discovering it involved a bit more than lying down and breathing deeply.  As long as the yoga mat remained in the car though, there was a possibility I might go to another yoga class and become that calm and skinny person.
• 17 boxes of raisins, in various states of consumption.
• 14 packets of oatcakes, also as above.
• More evidence of McDonalds Happy Meals than supported my 'only very occasionally' claim.
• An ancient and battered copy of Prince Caspian.
• Seven odd socks, and one matching pair.
• A bag of Thornton's Special Toffee, fused into a single solid lump, and bearing shameful teeth marks suggesting that this had not stopped me trying to eat it.  .
• Various CDs all bearing titles like 'Nineties Hits' and 'Now That's Really Nineties Shite' and 'That's What I Really Call Nineties Shite' etc, all with Richard Marx and Vanilla Ice on them.
• An original iPod Shuffle.
• A 2nd gen iPod Shuffle.
• An actual current iPod Shuffle.
• Four umbrellas.
• Six pairs of pants- assorted owners.
• 27 hair bobbles.
• Too many half drunk bottles of mineral water to count.
• Crisps packets, many and varied.
• A ghost story Saff wrote at primary school (she's in Fourth Year).
• Eleven First Class stamps (result)!
• Five packets of dog treats.
• One almost but not quite empty bottle of Hermes perfume.
• Many petrol receipts, that I immediately put in the fire instead of confronting how much the Mighty Honda's thirsty habits really cost.
• Nine biros (that'll be why I can never find any pens in the house).
• Three packets of cable ties.
• A ball of string.
• Fifteen unopened mini packs of tissues.
• Some apple cores (possibly the source of The Smell).
• Two pairs of impossibly high patent heels, one black, one red.
• Six lip glosses.
• Three tubes of hand cream.
• Hello Kitty and Moshi Monsters plasters.
• Sudocrem (my youngest is EIGHT)!
• A liberal sprinkling of sesame seeds though out, due to making an emergency stop whilst attempting to embrace healthy eating.

The clever Poles did a sterling job though, the Mighty Honda was returned gleaming and pristine, all traces of Mystery Smell eliminated.  I didn't like to confess to the DC that whilst he was away, I had managed to break the seat in his precious car.  So I didn't, and will continue to deny everything if confronted.

Funland- the Finale!

The Very Important Funland Day dawned.  The Very Important Chair had ordered me to attend the Very Important Gala Day and help with the Petting Zoo, to atone for my disgraceful behaviour at the Piss Up.  I agreed, as I knew I was going to be dragged there anyway by small children and if I was helping I could be much more judgemental about how much better it would've been, had I organised it all.

I had not realised this would involve me being forced to cram my considerable norkage into a violent pink polyester t-shirt three sizes too small, but I put it on anyway, as a dear friend was having a bad day and I thought a photo of my comedy tits in a comedy shirt might cheer her up.*

My orders were to arrive early so I could be 'briefed'.  Apparently it was not possible to partake of Funland without a 'briefing'.  Despite arriving early, no briefing was forthcoming, I was just pointed in the direction of the Petting Zoo and told to take the money.

I had envisaged a Petting Zoo as being a collection of fluffy white clouds in a variety of sizes.  Bunnies, and lambikins and miniature goats and other cute baby animals. Maybe some gambolling kittens and other cuddly shit.  I was wrong.

The 'Petting' Zoo consisted of tarantulas and snakes and cockroaches and lizardy things and great big enormous fuck off dragon things.  I recoiled at the entrance and declined the offers to Pet the Zoo.  There was also a duck, but the duck could not be Petted as it was a Vicious Duck.  I assume it was included in the Petting Zoo to attack Bad Children.

I survived the Zoo, without getting bitten by a tarantula or a duck, but was thoroughly savaged by the VIC when I was handing over to the next shift and it turned out I was supposed to charge the parents coming in as well as the children.  My disgrace was now of epic proportions.

Due to the black cloud I was now under, when we came to set up for the dance in the evening, I was only entrusted with putting the posh soap and smelly stuff in the loos.  I also commandeered the keys to the Bog Roll Cupboard, and cunningly hid a private stash to be distributed to chosen friends when the night wore on and the loos were bare.  Then, as I was still deemed incompetent, I went to the kitchen and ate canapés and talked to the sexy chef till it was time to go home and get changed.  The VIC was crosser than ever that she was now hot and sweaty and angry, and I was full of canapés and unchastened by my punishments.

The dance began gloriously.  There were cocktails, and I found room for more canapés.  I insulted the whippersnapper vet by calling him a whippersnapper, in one of those unfortunate scenarios when you only realise that the thing that is funny inside your head, is not funny outside your head, when it is already outside. 

The VIC kept coming and shouting at us to mingle, so we did, we mingled right into a corner with a bottle of whisky we had found.  Then we mingled back out again, and I told some very boring people that they were very boring, so now they will never talk to me again.  Which is good, because I'd been trying to achieve that result through tactful means for years, and actually all I needed to do was drink whisky!

The piper vanished from his piping duties and was found in the broom cupboard with a lady who was not his wife.  We lost the first band for a while as well, a pair of comely young wenches who were finally tracked down also chatting up my sexy chef. 

I think there was an auction.  I'm pretty sure that's why I spent half an hour holding a clipboard in a self important fashion anyway.  It's possible I was just pissed and being a twat. 

I suddenly became very popular around midnight when the bog roll ran out and word got around I had a private supply. 

I lost my shoes.  Several times.  Each time, I found them with joy and declared we would never be parted again. 

The next day it was discovered that after the dance, Youths had come out of their lairs and taken down all the Funland bunting around the village and wrapped it around various parked cars.  Apparently this wasn't funny.  The VIC stamped her tiny feet in Rumpelstilkskin-esque rage and burst into flames.

* Hope you appreciated it darling.

Of Festivals and F*ckings.

 

That afternoon, as the light rain I had predicted began to fall, it was time to set off for the joy that is the local Beer Festival.  Why we insist on going each year, I'm not sure, given I only drink poncy foreign beer in girly sized bottles and the DC only drinks lager.  I think I am under the impression it is a good country thing to do.  I think I am only under that impression because they have some hay bales to sit on. 

 

Nonetheless, nothing daunted, we deposited the Beast with the TQ, ordered the Terror to his basket, pretended we hadn't seen that he had ignored us and set off through the increasingly heavy rain.

 

The Beer Festival was dismal.  There were many men in red trousers.  I hate men in red trousers, they are twats.  There were also an unnecessary amount of bushy beards, and not nearly enough tweed.  I felt extremely smug that I had by far the nicest wet weather clothing, adorable as I was in the Dubes and the Barbour cape (I love my Barbour cape; even though when I proudly showed it to Mrs Farmer, she shuddered and pulled her battered and ancient Barbour round her a little tighter, and sighed at me in resigned disappointment). 

 

Hay bales and looking totes adorable in no way compensated for the beards, the red trousers or the fact I was standing in the rain, in a pub car park, drinking warm, flat cider, when not 100 yards away was a perfectly serviceable tavern, with a roof, and walls, and an inn keeper to whom I could shout "Hendricks and tonic, my good man, ice and cucumber if you would."  However, as you had to pay on your way into the 'Festival' which entitled you to a certain number of quaffs of swill, I persevered, despite being jostled by bearded red trousers, for I am cheap.

 

I was relieved when I had had my quota of flat, warm piss and could repair to the pub for a restorative G&T.  There was only time for one however and then it was time to go home and feed the Terror.  The DC had been given a free pass for the night, as Saff was away on another D of E expedition, and the other mothers were coming round for more margheritas and gossip (they didn't want to play poker for some reason, even when I promised not to compare myself to Victoria Coren Mitchell again).  

 

Terror fed, vats of margheritas made, the other mothers arrived and we politely embarked on the gossip.  Around 8pm, pathetic texts began to arrive from Saff and another feeble child.  They were wet.  They were cold.  They were utterly miserable.  They couldn't light the stove to cook the many noodles she had rejected last time that I had made her pack again.  There was a puddle in the tent.  A terse text enquiring why the fuckety FUCK there was a puddle in the tent revealed they had accidently pitched their tent in a ditch.  At this point we lost all sympathy, turned our phones off and made a conscious decision to get as shit faced as possible so we couldn't go and retrieve them even if we wanted to. 

 

This proved to be an excellent decision as under the influence of a litre and a half of tequila, inhibitions were cast aside and any pretence at being nice, impartial or discreet was abandoned.  Oh deary deary me!  Apparently the whole village is at 'it' ! All shagging each other like bunnies, in between carrying out complex feuds (usually related to the shagging) and shop lifting Prada purses

 

The DC lurched in some point and joined in the gossip with glee, revealing tales of drug dealing and money laundering (while I sat there thinking "Why haven't you told me this before?" and also "We could have stayed in town for drug dealing and money laundering and I could go to Waitrose EVERY SINGLE DAY"), before sliding off his chair and vanishing. 

 

The others stumbled home around 3am.  I followed the snores and found the DC comatose, fully clothed, smack bang in the centre of my bed.  I kicked prodded him a couple of times, to no avail, so I left him to it and retired to the spare room with the Terror, to ruminate on the night's revelations.  The Terror, emulating his hero, the Alpha Dog, also insisted on snoring loudly all night.

 

The next day, despite his hangover, I insisted the DC dug out the remaining pampas grass in the garden, lest any of the village shag monsters got the wrong idea about us.

Funland In The Big Field- part 2

The day after the piss up, hangover biting hard, was the eve of yet another Funland.  This time it was the PTA Fun Day, a misnamed event if ever there was one.  A smaller field was the venue for this fun, which at least meant less chance of the Great Unwashed descending on it.  On the downside, apparently I was supposed to organise it.  I have organised too many of these 'Fun Days' and my enthusiasm for Hook A  Fucking Duck, Hoopla and The Cunting Cake Stall has waned ever more each year. 

This time, the weather forecast threatened a variety of delights, depending on which runes you looked at.   If you went with the prognosis of the Local Character, who puts forth his wisdom via a Facebook page, has no meteorological credentials at all, but whom everyone seems to think infallible, despite his predictions almost always being wrong, then we were in for showers of frogs and plagues of locusts and various other epic torments of a biblical nature. 

If however you looked at one of the many useful apps now available, or indeed simply relied upon the British Broadcasting Corporation's forecast, light rain was predicted, after lunch. 

Despite this, the others of the PTA clung stubbornly to the Great Floods and Pestilence predicted by the Character.  Radar pictures were dismissed as White Man's Magic, for Lo, the Character had spoken. 

Thus it was, that several of them converged on me in the playground on Friday afternoon, wittering about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, and expressing a desire to cancel it.  As I was a) hung-over to fuck, and b) no longer actually gave a shit about the Bouncy Fucking Castle, I declared the Bouncy Fucking Castle Dead To Me and stalked off home to attempt to bake cakes for the Cunting Cake Stall and hope a little G&T eased the terrible pain in my head.

Miraculously revived by the healing powers of gin, I produced many cakes, dug out my special PTA box containing the bunting, the string, the sellotape, the blue tack and the scissors that are invariably needed at every single PTA event and that no one else thinks to bring and that I have written 'CASSANDRA' on in indelible marker so no other fucker can steal them, and had several more gins to get me through the Friday night joy of the DC catching up on his gardening programmes.

The next day dawned, as I had said it would, bright and sunny.  Arriving at the Slightly Smaller Field, I was met by the PTA Deputy Chair, in a mood as thunderous as the storms the Character had predicted, having a proper paddy about the lack of the Bouncy Fucking Castle.  All I need say about the Deputy Chair, to explain his character to you, is that he is an estate agent.  SUCH an estate agent. 

I pointed out that he was one of the wittering bastards who had wanted to cancel it, and if everyone had listened to me then there would still be a Bouncy Castle, but he was not to be placated.  I imagined ramming the 46 plastic yellow ducks for the Hook A Duck up his smarmy estate agent's arsehole and felt a little better.  As he had been such a twat, I put him on the candy floss machine, as it is a bastard of a job, involving getting sugar stuck in places where sugar should not be stuck.  Or yellow plastic ducks.

So there we were, our sullen, resentful little band, the ducks bobbing merrily, awaiting their hooking; the cakes listing to starboard, ready to be purchased for a sum completely out of proportion to their crappy rustic appearance due to being 'homemade'; the coconuts shying and the smell of burning sugar and flesh drifting over it all on a cloud of expletives, as the Deputy Chair burnt himself on the candy floss machine again.

Shortly, many feral fiends arrived to partake in the Fun, by bleeding their parents dry.  At some point the DC arrived and thrust the Beast at me, before setting off to walk the Terror. This meant I was also bled dry, as I thrust pound coins at The Beast and sent him on his way, as I fished another blue and gasping toddler out the Hook a Duck pond, and refused them a prize as falling in and semi drowning was Against The Rules. 

The Fun ended at lunchtime, hurrah, and I dashed home, all bunting, sellotape, blue tack, string and scissors accounted for; realised I had forgotten the Beast, dashed back, scooped him up, bought his silence with a lollipop I found in the glove compartment (best before May 2012) and finally returned home to find the DC looking pale and traumatised and the Terror looking slightly battered but wearing that expression of smug bliss which means some other creature has been brutally dispatched by his bloody paws. 

It turned out to be a weasel.  A fucking weasel.  Unlike the rabbits and pheasants that are his usual prey, the weasel had fought back quite hard.  The poor DC had been in a quandary, wondering which was worse: to attempt to intervene between a small but vicious dog and a weasel trying to kill each other; or to run away and pretend it was nothing to do with him, and then face my wrath when I returned home to find he had abandoned my poor dog to his fate! 

The Terror had solved the problem by ripping the weasel's throat out, and then proudly presenting the limp, twitching remains to the DC, blood dripping from his fangs, and a gaggle of Swedish walkers approaching over the horizon, about to be witness to the carnage.  The DC fled, towing an indignant Terror behind him, livid that his lovely present had been so summarily rejected. 

I was a bit livid too, The Terror has never given me anything he has killed, he keeps them for himself, but he has a bizarre crush on the DC, who he seems to regard as the Alpha Dog.

A Prelude to Funland or Why Cassandra Isn't Invited To Events With Free Bars.

Each year the enclave holds a Gala Day, followed by a dance in the evening.  This is Very Important, and in no way to be compared to Funland, and anyone who doesn't take the Gala Day and the accompanying dance Very Seriously Indeed will be tarred and feathered by the Very Important Gala Day Chairperson and drummed out the Enclave.  There's definitely a Spider Baby at the Gala Day though.

Despite my utter inability to take anything seriously, I signed up to help arrange the dance, mainly because I fucking could and to show all the lazy fucking underachievers of the enclave what one can do if one only puts one's mind to it, like the miserable bitch who recoiled when asked if she'd like to sign up for the PTA and gasped she wouldn't possibly have time, she had two children, you know. 

It turned out to be the most mind numbing tedious thing I had ever done, mainly due to the Very Important Chair, who desired us only to tell her how fabulous she was and express wonder at her exquisite taste, miraculous organisation and how she was practically perfect in every way. 

It wasn't all bad though.  I bonded early on with another committee member who intimated by shared looks and raised eyebrows that she too was failing to take the Very Important Dance as Very Seriously as she should, and we sniggered behind our hands each time the Very Important Chair babbled of  'shabby chick deecor for the marquee' or pronounced 'homage' as 'oomidge'.  Cruel yes, but the meetings were long and dull and we had to make our fun where we could.

After months of biting my tongue and refraining from screaming was it really that fucking important if the table runners were a shade darker than the fucking tickets, our reward came in the form of the Pre Funland Piss Up, aka the 'Corporate Evening' (I don't make the proper fucking names up, ok), where all the sponsors and helpers are entertained by the committee members to a right royal knees up, held at the local distillery.  What I hadn't realised when we were all taken aside by the VIC to make sure we had clean hands and had brushed our hair and be given a little pep talk about how we weren't there to get pissed, was that the distillery were providing all the booze, free, gratis, and unlimited! 

Naughty New Friend and I exchanged yet another look.  Thirty six years upon this earth have not yet taught me to regard a free bar as a pleasant bonus and not a challenge, and I was thrilled to discover she felt the same way.  Also, it seems rude and churlish to say no when there are delightful girls going round with trays of drinks, and it is a hot evening and so your wine is evaporating very quickly and they keep offering to take away your nasty empty glass and give you a lovely full one! 

By the time the VIC made her Very Important Speech, my Naughty New Friend and I were hysterical with our own hilarity and holding each other up as we collapsed with laughter. 

I compounded my disgrace a little later when I was holding forth to various great and good worthies from the local rugby club.  I was vaguely aware that I was possibly being a 'bit much' as I loudly regaled them with some of the filthier jokes I have learned over the years of working in a male dominated industry and having a sick sense of humour, and I incurred the wrath of the VIC who came over and suggested I should 'circulate' instead of 'hogging these chaps' who she 'would chat to now' .  The 'chaps' shouted "No, leave her, she's funny- you circulate." and the VIC, who rather fancies most of the enclave has a sort of head girlish crush on her, circulated off on her heel. 

Sadly, they called time on the free bar, and we had to return to the enclave and its hostelries.  There was some question of how we would make our way back to the enclave, and talk was had of the bus (public transport, quelle horreur).

Naughty New Friend had a better plan.  Dashing out to the side of the road, she flagged down the first car driven by someone who looked vaguely local, hopped in and demanded they took us to the pub.  Basically we car jacked a granny, so great was our horror of public transport.  Bless the granny, she took us, and I shall never curse a Honda Jazz driver again.

The pub was a mistake.  My last clear memory was the VIC watching us drive off with granny, mouth like a cat's bum (thanks again to St Jilly for another splendid phrase).  After that it is a bit hazy.  There was definitely a heated debate about Scottish independence, which I took part in whole heartedly, despite having forgotten all the clever and rational arguments about why it is a bad idea and thus backing up my anti- independence stance by simply shouting "NO, YOU'RE STUPID".  Luckily everyone else was also very drunk and putting forward equally well reasoned and coherent arguments.

The pub ran out of drink, distressingly early given the fun we were having, but far too late given the hangover I had the next day!

I tottered home, to be found by the DC slumped on the front step, searching through my handbag for my key by the light on my phone.  It is definitely the last time he will ever find me in such a state though- I have bought a little motion activated light for my key.