Isn’t it funny how one tiny letter can change the whole meaning of a word/sentence/evening.
For example, on Friday, in the office, the editor politely enquired what my plans were for the weekend.
“Tonight I'm going to a pamper evening,“ said I.
“A pampers evening?” said he.
“You mean you are going to one of those places where you all sit around in (pampers) nappies?” he continued.
The worrying thing is, he seemed quite serious and unfazed, thinking this was how I wished to spend my Friday night.
Hastily, I removed any doubt from his mind that kinky fetish nights were my thing.
Friday evening, without a single nappy in sight, my friend Eve picked me up from the train station, and it was off for some pampering at my friend Helen’s kiddies school.
I saw a psychic (won’t go into too much detail for the sceptics but I was stumped at some poignant comments), I had a paraffin wax on my achy feet, and then a shoulder, back and neck massage, which nearly sent me to sleep. I was also handed various samples of facemasks, which are always appreciated.
It was nice to catch up with friends too, although we all got rather emotional towards the end of the night, and a few tears were shed for my friend Claire’s lost friend. I tried to be brave for Claire’s sake, but seeing someone I care about struggling with their emotions became too much for me I’m afraid.
But we had a toast to absent friends, and to loved ones who are gone but certainly never forgotten.
Saturday day time, I went to the hospital to visit my poorly Nan. She’s recently taken a tumble and broken her hip. She looked even frailer, tucked up in the hospital bed, and relying on strong painkillers to ease the pain. My mother and I fed her home made vegetable soup, in an attempt to help build her strength up, and chatted away to her, saying we would soon have her dancing around the ward. We also spoke about the hen night I was attending that night, and tried to make her laugh by describing the characters people were asked to come as. We said our goodbyes, when she began to drift off into (hopefully peaceful) sleep.
Saturday evening, I put my tracksuit and trainers on, and changed my name to Paula Ranoffacliff. My friend Claire joined me as the country and western singer, Dolly Pardon. We entered a local hotel and were soon in fits of laughter when we spied The Queen, Margaret Thatchedhouse and Davina McCallgirl, to name just a few. It was my friend Alison’s murder mystery themed hen night.
Pate and salad, roast beef with all the trimmings, and cheesecake were served. And it soon came to light that Alison’s groom to-be was a two timing, drug dealing, cross dressing, devious spy, who someone at the table had bumped off! Clues and accusations were flying around the room, and at the end of the night we all tried to guess the murderer.
I’m glad to report that I did not kill him - it was Mona Lewinsky. But don’t ask me how or why because I can’t remember. Think I was too busy tucking into my cheesecake at the crucial part of the night. Oh well. It was all good fun at the time.
Picture of the day:
Me in a wig.
Friend in a wig.