I was going to wear the same skanky purple Going Out Top I've worn for all occasions this past year but it's so grandmotherly and sensible I thought I'd hunt down something groovier. Admittedly hitting the shops the night before the party was a crap strategy; all the ho ho ho and jingle jangling in the shopping centre made me cranky after ten minutes and I soon gave up.
This year's gripe: why the bloody hell why are they putting elastic on the bottom of Going Out Tops?
I thought I'd hit the jackpot with a slinky gold number. I pulled it over my head and felt a rush of hope as it draped over my sturdy shoulders, hugged the boobs and flattered the belly. But then it went quite literally pear-shaped because the top kept on going, all the way to mid-thigh, engulfing my butt… then finished with an elasticated hem. It strangled my thighs like a lasso, making the top billow out between boob and thigh so I resembled a shimmering, arseless Christmas bauble.
Why would I want a lasso round my thighs? I know where my thighs are!
. . .
A lovely former colleague visited us today along with her five-month-old twin girls. I held one for two minutes and didn't break it.
"Are you sniffing her head?" Linda asked.
"Yes! It smells like babies."
"What did you think it would smell like? Coffee?"
For the first time in my life I felt a very faint twinge that babies might not be the most revolting idea in the world. Very very faint, mind you.
I raised the possibility with Gareth this evening.
"Nah," he said. "Too much work."
"But we could raise them under a fascist regime like The Mothership did. It would be the total opposite of too much work. Teach them to do dishes and weed gardens as soon as they can lift their own heads. You'll never do chores again!"
"You can't do fascist regimes with kids these days! They just get resentful and steal all your money then stab you in your sleep."
. . .
Hello to anyone who found their way here from People magazine! Just to explain in case you came looking for super duper speedy weight loss tips, there was a wee typo in their review of the Dietgirl book - the lard-busting took around 333 weeks, not 33. Hehe.