Next weekend, H and I are going to a family wedding. I have approximately 97 million first cousins, so this sort of thing will keep on happening. We are also having the in-Laws over for a night for a completely unrelated jamboree the same weekend. This is going to involve a great deal of flinging ourselves in and out of cars in a state of agitation and silk frocks. Hurrah!
To that end, and also to Christmassy ends, H and I spent the day trapped in a gigantic shopping centre, in which I nagged H into buying a smart suit with the argument ‘but you need a new suit anyway’. H is disgruntled because he has a perfectly nice and rather more colourful jacket that he wanted to wear instead. He is right. It is a lovely jacket. It just makes him look like a Bond villain. Which is probably a rather jolly thing to look like at a wedding, but he doesn’t have a pair of trousers that go with it, and no Bond villain worth his horrendously overbred Persian cat would appear in unsuitable trousers. In the new suit, he looks merely handsome and suave. Heigh ho.
There was a party-frock sale also, so I tried on five dresses, one of which made me look like a Lorne sausage that had been trodden on, one of which made me look like Elizabeth Taylor at a Royal Variety Performance (stylish, but so very not me), one of which made me look pregnant with a fourteen-hooved yak, one of which actively prevented me from sitting down, one of which was very nice, actually, and one of which was divinely cute and crucially, NOT on sale. So I bought that last one. Again, I say, heigh ho. Also, it’s HARD, finding cute party frocks, when you are 36DD and have a belly and hips and an arse like a bouncy castle and yet, crucially, a waist also. HARD, people. And DEPRESSING.
And so and obviously and therefore, my period is due that weekend. Bwahahahahahahahaha!