Sunday, 19 December 2010

How a week's worth of Xmas parties ended with some confusion. Not mine.

It would appear that I have seriously lapsed on the blog writing front. Well, not totally as the other one continues to pootle along nicely, complete with blessing from current employer ("don't go changing anything" to quote my new boss - I felt like breaking in to song, and not of the carol variety). What a change from previous circumstances.

Anyway, I digress. I have been very busy of course. Work first, laundry second, children somewhere in the midst and then that other calamity that befalls everyone this time of year.

The Christmas party.

Now I cannot make claims akin to those of other mothers who manage to drink, get drunk, fall over and then bounce back the following morning. Presumeably with make-up removed and dignity still intact.

I am a lightweight drinker, even more so since the arrival of the kids. One glass of wine and I am already regretting the imaginary hangover and reaching for the water jug. The upside (for OH) is that I am happy to be the designated driver - although with recent black ice and snowy conditions he was not quite as buoyed by the idea as usual - but the downside is that I turn into Mary Whitehouse and start to tut-tut at everything around me.

So. This past week saw LCM attending: a corporate drinks and canap├ęs event at the Dorchester Hotel; a school mum's Secret Santa party with fifteen other mothers; the office Christmas lunch in west London; and last - but not least - my former rowing club's annual dinner.

The latter was the icing on the cake, if for no other reason than my lovely friend Lady P was also there. Guaranteed laughter (us) and ticking off (by our respective OHs) as she too is a pretty useless drinker and likewise attached to the water jug. If I am Mary Whitehouse when solo, the two of us together morph in to Trinny and Susannah, complete with inappropriate comments.

An addendum here: I do actually possess a photo of Lady P pre-children of her asleep under a restaurant table due to excessive alcohol consumption. She was carted off home over my OH's shoulder (who seemed to think he had morphed into a fireman for the night) and almost had a brutal awakening when he stumbled down a step. Fortunately she lived to (not) tell the tale. But has also forsaken alcohol since.


So just for the record can I state that we were very well behaved throughout the entire event? I even managed courteous conversation with the most tedious woman this side of, uhm, well, anywhere, I think. My facial muscles ached from all the smiling (and I will kill whoever did the seating plan though when I eventually hunt them down).

Until.

Until one of the coaches stood up to make a speech and my mouth dropped open. I looked alarmingly at Lady P.

"Has he been ill?" I asked.

"No," she replied.

"Does he need a Strepsil?" I queried.

"No, he always sounds like that," she answered, and promptly collapsed into a fit of giggles.

I was too stunned to comment any further. It bugged me for the rest of the evening, and when the poor fellow later cornered us in the bar area for a chat, I again was speechless. And then it struck me.

This was Marge Simpson on steroids.
Don't believe me? Listen here (and if you cannot, use your imagination, and no he is not using a voice-distorting microphone):




Now, if he were my coach I would be too distracted to focus on my rowing. Probably just as well I have retired from the competitive circuit.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, I was then approached by another (older) member of the club, all smiles and kisses.

"Marilyn! How are you?" 

Honestly. Never realised not drinking would see me morph into la Monroe.



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