They complain about the nagging and then make up rules like : You can’t wear jeans in the clubhouse. (You can pee on the floor, but you can’t wear jeans in the clubhouse). And if you’re going to have rules like that, you don’t just spring it on the wife at the last minute, when all she was going to do is drop you off at the golf club and have a bite to eat. Especially not when it’s en route to a hotel for a weekend away; you’ve sorted your party wear, you’ve sorted your travelling /casual for the next day wear - suddenly there’s a lunch outfit to sort, which changes the Sunday lazing around outfit - unless you’re taking a suitcase instead of an overnight bag. Jeez, men. They just don’t get it, do they? I ended up with fluffy legs due to the untried combination of black trousers and new lambs wool cardigan. It didn’t help that we left the party wear hanging on the banister and only realised twenty minutes into the journey. Still, we saw the second half of the West Ham v Hartlepool game. And lunch was very nice.
Unbelievable as it may seem, I’d never seen my brother’s kids in the same room at the same time! But his 50th was the reason I finally did. The older boy, now a dad himself; his sister, confident as DJ, hostess and Karaoke queen, my youngest niece, confident enough to accompany her batty aunt on ‘Love Shack’ - that’s a lot harder to sing than you think, you know, even after sundry Tia Marias. And the younger boy, feeling poorly but making it through.
We played 'The Best of Culture Club' in the car on the way home and the first line sung was “Give me time to recognise my crime.” I had to laugh. I know I shouldn’t but I just had to. Love a bit of irony, me. There’s also a great bamba song.