Monday, 20 March 2017

Not going out.

It’s the weekend! Whoop! Weekends mean Daddy’s home, lazy mornings, trips to John Lewis or maybe a National Trust property. Yes- we know how to partay. They used to mean drinks after work and I mean lots of drinks after work, maybe a theatre trip or a comedy gig, waking up on Saturday morning with my pillow case covered in the previous days make up, breath like a badgers nethers and a heavy feeling of regret. Good times.
The thought of this freedom being suddenly taken away from me used to worry the hell out of me. Going out on the town and painting it a shade of crimson was part of me. I was a bit of a party girl. Coming home in the early hours by night bus or otherwise was part of my routine. My friends and I would order two, nay three bottles of wine with no dinner and thought that was a ruddy good idea, do a tactical chunder and push on into our third hour of karaoke at Lucky Voice. Then, gradually one by one, many of us got preggers. And gradually, one by one we grew up a bit. I mean, I haven’t completely. I’m still an overgrown idiot who laughs at people saying “hamster” in an inappropriate way or still sits in talks or events pricking about at the back. But when it comes to going out, I’m kind of over it. A bit. I like going out, don’t get me wrong but a different kind of going out. Many of my friends reading this will be saying under their breaths,”Bullshit, Harriet”, and granted I was placed in a taxi after my works Christmas bash but in my defence, I was trying to count my drinks and that was made very difficult by people buying them for me and I hadn’t had any dinner. To be fair, I was trying out a pair of mock leather trousers and there wasn’t much room for a Linda McCartney Sausage in there if I’m completely honest (no pun intended). Four pounds of prize baby weight is still hanging on or hanging out for dear life.


When the oop goes down, I’m tired and like Moley in Wind in the Willows, I miss my home. Home is where my small person is. Evenings now consist of Netflix, glass or two of red (only three nights a week) and a cup of tea to take to bed. Oh, and catching up on The Archers. It's been very exciting of late and one of best mates plays Tracy Horrobin. Also, the past few weeks I’ve been on Paw Patrol so my evenings have been cut short. We’ve been completely addicted to Bloodline. It’s so sodding good. Two eps a night. It’s a commitment. There’s no time to go out. Also, Line of Duty is back on Sunday so that's another commitment in my diary. And House of Cards should be back and christ, hopefully another Bloodline. 
You see, with such a full diary when is there time to go out? If I am going to go out I require a decent pub with good wine list and quiet music so that I can actually hear myself think. I have turned into the sort of person that has to walk out of Hollister, after the initial luring in by six packed, betightpanted youth, as it's too dark and too loud. Not that I shop at Hollister but you get my drift yo.
And also, I'm nearly 40 and have reached an age where I don't care as much what people think and am a lot happier than when I was in my twenties. I don't have to do everything and don't care if I miss out. I have responsibilities and that's ok. So, night all. If you fancy a quiet night in a pub then drop me a line. But don't get me wrong, I can still make a large hole in a bottle of Shiraz and no mistake. Just don't ask me to go clubbing afterwards. Night, night, slippers on. Now, what's Linda Snell up to?

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