Good food, great company. This is going to be fun…..

The bank holiday is one of those things that when you describe it, makes you say that pretentious phrase “quintessentially British”. Hate that phrase. Anyway, it’s one of those weird times like the period between Christmas and New Year. You forget where you are or what’s going on and what day it is. Saturday night out in Sheffield was oddly slow, simply because British people use the Bank Holiday to justify getting absolutely arseholed on a Sunday. On the lords day.

There is something more satisfying in using your usual pattern on a bank holiday in defiance of this tradition, it means the Monday off is a real bonus day, and you don’t drag your ass off to work Tuesday regretting that your extra day off was spent on the sofa watching crap.

Between the age of 25 and now I have somewhere lost the ability to guess ages of people. Well, the young people of today. Television doesn’t help seeing as the tradition has been that you can’t be a teen on tv unless you are about 42 in reality. But sometimes it is like seeing two scrawny foetuses sashaying across the floor. And I struggle to understand why people are so arrogant at that age. Just because I don’t have hairdresser hair as I call it, the type of hair inflicted on the world by “experimental” stylists, doesn’t mean I’m a sad old pervert who lives in a bedsit watching vintage Dr Who eating microwave lasagnes.

Ina would have none of this. To be fair that’s because I can’t see her in a tacky northern nite club. But her air of sophistication would not have lead her to drink 12 vodka and cokes. And request Cher with Believe at 2am. Today’s lesson needs to be about being appropriate. Perhaps it’s time for the dinner party to take charge. Or Bridge and snacks like Ina. Or maybe the Pot Luck party. However, as much as I enjoy a little dance around my living room occasionally after three glasses of wine, there’s something liberating about dancing drunk on a dance floor in some room that when the lights come up looks like somewhere that a serial killer keeps his victims. Fabulous. Off for scrambled eggs on toast. Who wouldn’t love that for breakfast?!

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