As it's the Easter hols I get a whole week, what I do during these long breaks is adorn my sombrero, apply factor 20, and finish every sentence with ' I'm on holiday.' I know allot of Mums will be reading this thinking you lucky bitch but believe me a week alone is not all it's cracked up to be. Being left....alone....is a weird and scary experience.
I start the week feeling relieved, I'm buzzing no kiddy commitments.No school runs, no play dates, no early mornings, no dinners to cook. But it's surprising how when all this routine and structure is taken away life can quickly fall into disarray, even as an adult. The beginning of the week is filled by tidying my new singles pad, and it stays like it for more than half an hour! Having a lay in with no 6 year old nagging me to put Milkshake on full blast. Then I start to make plans, after all i'm on holiday!
So the visits to friends ensue, lunches in the day, dinners in the evening. Now this all may sound enviable but by midweek the darkness begins to creep in. When the novelty of freedom has worn off and you've exhausted your address book of the 3 remaining friends with no kids,(come on lets face it who wants to meet up with the ones that do, bus mans holiday or what,) what do you do then?
Well, this is when things get messy. 'A night out?!.....' I exclaim '.....town? Oh no not for me.' I reply. 'Oh..okay,yes, I guess you're right. I am on holiday'. Bugger. The self convincing then begins of what a great night out I'm going to have, after all I don't need to stay out to late, and I may not drink anyway, may drive even. And there in lies the problem. You don't want to go, you can't take the post drink blues, the three day recovery period required at my age! I'll put my foot down I'm an adult in control of my own life, I don't have to go anywhere I don't want to!
When the dreaded night arrives I'm begging they've forgotten when the call comes. It's still on, no-ones backing down, you're all meeting at nine. Nine! That's an hour before my bedtime how ridiculous! I'm in a mood already.
Then the 'I've got not clothes' routine begins. What should I wear, is it pub casual, is it pub casual dressed up with jacket, in case we go on somewhere. Is it dress up as we will go on somewhere? Well I'm not going out even if they think I am, I know I'll drive, that'll get them off my back. So outfit decision made, then remade, then remade, every things old or doesn't fit. I've got no clothes and I'm hideous. I'm not going!
After showering, and shaving parts that have not seen a razor since pre summer, well, it's either that or french plat, and sods law I'll get a sniff for the first time in three years! I squeeze into clothes now running late and it's time for the crusty old make up bag full of old hair clips in cased in powder. You always find one with a clump of wax in the U bend that some bastards put back in.
I got 48 different foundations, none cover, 34 lip glosses all the same colour and a bronzing brush that hasn't been washed for 4 years, beautiful. Base on it's time for my lumpy accient mascara that clogs the only three lashes I have into one large pointy one, this is then smudged by a humongous sneeze after which I have to baby wipe my neither regions and replace pants after a small wetting. Like I said...you never know.
Looking like Hinge or Brackett, either one, it's time to don my driving flats, you know you can't drive in your heels anymore. It's dangerous! I Find my going out purse and phone the one with just enough room for your card and bit of cash, then head out. Now, I know it sounds very irresponsible but I don't bother locking my door sometimes when out of a night. My explanation is that the likely hood of a stranger sneaking in and waiting to attack me on my return is less likely than my becoming paralytic and losing my keys. Especially if the attacker saw me leaving, they're unlikely to hang around for a mutton dressed as lamb, clown faced tranny.
Anyway, Ive made it out. 'Have a drink, don't be boring' first words I hear. 'I don't need a drink to have a good time, been there done it, got the t-shirt, gave up getting drunk when I was a kid' I preach. 'Go on...' they whine '....you can leave the car'. Buckling under peer pressure and pure out right bullying, I agree if just to keep them happy. Then agree again, and again, and again, and again.......oh dear. Now this is where the story takes a turn....for the worse.
Lets fast forward 4 hours. I am now in a bar/club stinking of Jaguar, because as I've repeated to every bar person I've come into contact with, 'I don't like the bomb, just the Jaguar!' cringe. I am no longer Hinge neither Brackett, I am, Beyonce. The dance floor ain't seen such fine moves since I was out last Christmas. There ain't no stopping me now. After releasing the beast in me my selfish friends have dropped like flies one by one, sinking beneath the table I have slumped them over before I pack them off home in a taxi. I'm now in a bar surrounded by 20 year olds latched on to one of the bar staff from a previous pub, after all 'I'm on holiday!'. I'm showing everyone my comfy flats that Ive changed back into as me feet are in agony. 'I weren't coming out for long'. I slur over strangers.
Finally 3' 0 clock comes and the lights come on meaning I HAVE to leave now. I'm outside for half hour bantering with all the youth thinking I'm hilarious. I finally accost a taxi after being advised by the youth to go home as it's not safe for a women my age to be in town alone. On the journey home I haggle prices with the poor tormented driver whilst cocking one leg in the air showing him my comfy shoes in his rear view mirror. I estimate I did this approximately 37 times.
It's 4 am and I fall through the unlocked door I hunt the house where is he? That intruders got be here somewhere, please, let him be here. Sadly with no sign of him i resign myself to a night alone and after washing my face, yes I was my face no matter what state, the monster is laid to rest. OK, I pass out.
On awakening, i look over to the alarm clock, bastard 7.30, the body clock shows no mercy for this soldier. By the bed stands a glass of water and a Berrocca that I must have gotten to take up to bed but have no memory of. How sensible I am must have been feeling. My head bangs, my body is mummified by dehydration, I need a wee but I daren't move in fear of dry retching. I lay sprawled in the dimness of the dawn at the bottom of the black hole known as the post drink blues. I want to kill myself, a little extreme you may think but not until Wednesday. Until then death is the only option.
And there you have it, there is nothing more I can say. Except, bring back the cat as left alone, this mouse, is an arsehole.
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