Important things first – today is H’s birthday. H is a star and a gem and an angel among men and a mensch and is the onlie begetter of some of the stupidest puns ever spoken by an adult, and I love him.
It’s been, well, a lively few days. By my standards, at least. Which are quite low. I think buying a new brand of coffee is quite, quite thrilling.
But Sunday really was nice and exciting. The redoubtable HFF organized a Bloggers Lunch, which turned into a Bloggers Moveable Feast, because once we’d gathered for the preliminary ‘oh, so that’s what you look like’ pre-shopping morning coffee, we were hooked, and talked incessantly for the rest of the morning.
So, I met Katy, whose blog I have been slowly but steadily chortling through the archives of, for the first time. Good Lord, but the woman is funny. Funny). This post made me laugh so hard I lay back and wheezed like Muttley for minutes on end. Katy brought a non-blogging friend with her, who was so clever and funny herself she probably should blog. HFF of course is now firmly in the ‘dear old friend and co-defendant’ category, and is a joy to chat with. And later we were joined by the lovely Bumbling and her darling angelic little girl (and so like her mother). Bumbling has been to my blog before, so I had a shy moment of real live actual people read this (which, in retrospect, is daft. Of course real people read this. Who did I think was reading it? Visitors? Replicants?) and clammed up temporarily. Sorry, Bumbling. I’d’ve loved to talk more to you. I have kicked myself – look, you can see the mark on my ankle and everything.
Having eaten and drunk and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked, we eventually really did have to go our separate ways, and I pranced off feeling very chipper and pleased with myself, because, really, what spectacularly amusing and lovely people they were, and they had lunch with me, Queen Dork, and I didn’t humiliate myself very much (did I? No, don’t tell me. Leave me in my happy pink cloud).
H, only blob of testosterone in entire crowd, was quite quiet all afternoon. This is entirely normal for H, but I did ask if he’d been OK, lost in the sea of chatter, and he gave me a look and said ‘I like listening to funny articulate women. I was perfectly happy.’ So I said ‘oh’ and carried on yammering nonsense at him all the way home, just by way of contrast.
Anyway, meanwhile, my run of RAGING DORK has continued, despite brief respite on Sunday for socialising purposes (thank you Universe). On Monday, I realised, with a heavy heart, that the wire mesh part of my beloved little cafetiere had great big holes in it, so when the plunger is depressed (poor plunger, how can we comfort it?), the coffee grounds swirl happily through the coffee rather than being coralled in the bottom of the cafetiere. So I got down the great big six-cup cafetiere that only ever gets used at dinner parties (which I host about once a decade), and promptly dropped it. It very unkindly shattered into thousands of miniscule shards, and there was me in my stocking feet, cussing like Al Swearengen, uncaffeinated, and the hoover out of arms-reach and all. After much finicking collecting of razor-edged glass sequins and careful emptying of hoover bags, I made coffee in the little jug with the damaged plunger, and sieved the grounds out through my teeth. Unsuccessfully. I am very glad I am not my lower bowel. No, wait…
Today, though, I had got it together. I was wearing make-up and managed not to smear it from nose to ear. I wore a skirt and did not tuck it into the back in my tights after visiting the ladies’ and trot out into the street thus déshabillée. I took H to a fancy restaurant, and lo, they had our booking. We ate nearly all of our (exceedingly good) dinner in happy temper with the world and each other. And then I ordered pudding with pomegranate in – I like pomegranate. I offered H a taste, and he refused, as he really doesn’t like pomegranate seeds. Your loss, I thought, and bit down, then, on a seed that seemed extremely… gravelly. Weird, I thought, feeling the grit against my tongue. Shall I discreetly spit this out? But then my tongue touched something horrible, and in dismay I swallowed the gravel, for, alas, it was not gravel, and the bastard spawn of Satan pomegranate had chipped my Goddamn front tooth – the front one, oh curses!
Luckily, it didn’t hurt a bit. Even more luckily, when I had stopped vapouring quietly to myself and gone off to the WC to have a look, I realised the chip was a) quite small and b) not visible from the front, as it were, so Vanity of Appearance was appeased. Smug Pride in Family Indestructible Teeth got rather a debagging, alas.
Surely, that, and the cafetiere, and the Supermarket Trouser of Doom reported in the last post, are my lot for the moment? Surely, the dorktasm has climaxed now? Especially, please, as I have an Assisted Conception Unit Appointment of Whatever The Heck Do I Do Now tomorrow, and I do so want to be In Control for it.