It is him indoors’ birthday today and we’ve been to our local high quality eatery for a slap up and several vats of wine. Relatively speaking (as compared to the hours kept in my youthful years) we’re home early at 10:45 (why does the published time of this post think it is an hour earlier than it is? I'm too squiffy to work it out...), but we’ve spent grandly and are feeling quite jolly.
Isn’t it funny how one is easily satisfied with so much less excitement as one ages? In my teen years, I wouldn't have thought I'd had a good night out with anything less than pre-drinks in the venue of choice (Babycham in the local park - I've always been a classy bird), a glittering disco extravaganza (for which, read tunes spun by the local loser DJ, Miss Selfridge body glitter worn across a boob tube bound décolletage at the Saturday night village hall 'do'), a grand and highly dramatic evening of flirting, 'necking' and slow dancing with the cutest guy at the disco, all finished off with a huge fight with Mum and Dad on returning home decorated with love bites and smeared kohl eyes.
Aaahhh, those were the days...
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