Well I have started my week and a half off work by watching some horror film on TV. I am so going to have nightmares tonight. In fact I have started to blog in order to avoid having to completely focus on it. Of course some kind of in born need to see the endings to films having begun to watch them, compels me to see it through; although despite being as far from squeamish as humanly possible given my career choice, I am definitely feeling fairly sick at this point.
Last night on the contrary was a laugh a minute, as a group of us went out for a meal into Newcastle. (Keegan, Keegan!). No, not to the football, to an Italian - but in evening dresses. Which bright spark came up with that idea then? Not guilty for once. Mutton dressed as lamb comes to mind. Alas I spent most of the night holding my gorgeous, hideously expensive dress off the floor as it trailed all over the place.
Of course we thought the night had started quite well as we got parked very close to the restaurant; but it soon became apparent that it was going to go rapidly downhill as I tried to fasten the buckle on my heels on arrival, but could not reach my feet given the restraints of the fitted cleavage section to my dress. So bum in the air, sticking into the road, and legs up onto the car seat was the only way forward, not surprisingly causing a stir among drunken rowdy passers by and attracting plenty of car horns. Evidently no wolf whistles, just mocking cheers and 'oioi's' - damn.
Feeling slightly over-dressed, myself and a friend made our way to meet the others, which may sound fairly straight forward, but neither of us are exactly 'comfortable' in heels. We must have looked a shocking sight as we fumbled along to the restaurant, trying to stay upright and keep our gowns down in the wind.
Perhaps it was fate that I was driving and could not drink alcohol as our table in the restaurant was on the the third floor, two sets of stairs up, one of them a spiral staircase; and the toilets were then three flights of stairs down! So still upright on reaching our table, I decided this was an appropriate time to trial the strength of my bladder.
Nice meal, good company, met a few new interesting people. Food I'm not supposed to eat a plenty - including a pudding of course - which was nearly omitted in favour of coffee; 'aahhemm', excuse me while I nearly choke at the thought of favouring coffee over a dessert. Decision was to share a 'Death by chocolate' with a friend in order to prevent death from too many calories.
Of course consensus was to go for a drink following the meal, and who wouldn't choose a bar up a huge hill we all had to tackle in our heels? Who was making these decisions? So yes, we all geared up to climb the hill, heels in situ, despite me piping up with 'whats wrong with this bar down here?'. About a mile behind the others, myself and my friend wobbled our way up the 'mountain', my dress flying furiously about me like something on the moors from a period drama, and my friend freezing death with only a shawl round her shoulders. However we were not going to be beaten in our hard, Northern females stereotype, (manly) 'arrgggh'! Evening dress or no evening dress.
Leaving slightly earlier than the others, the two of us made our way back down the 'mountain' to the car, avoiding the subway not only for our safety but to avoid more steps, however it became too much for my friend who continued with heels removed despite my anxiety with regards to chills and getting a cold. Ridiculously I carried on in mine, getting stuck in pavement cracks and pot-holes the entire way.
So, next Friday we are endeavouring to 'party' the night away in what is reputably known as one of the worst nightclubs around. Another left-field idea which is going to have a huge group of us enduring more embarrassment to be sure. I dare say however, that I may be too bladdered to notice. The sudden improvement in my social life has me very enthusiastic. I feel it may be time for me to let go and enjoy some life again for a while, before I become completely penniless with a bigger house and enormous mortgage. In with shots and cocktails, and out with the old boring, tired me. Well, for one night anyway. I dare say I will be back to my hot-chocolate and early nights when I make acquaintance with my hangover the next day. Ironically I am going to turn up for an appointment with my nutritionist the morning after, feeling, well, terribly unwell. How humorous.
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