So the party preparations are in full swing for tonight's celebration. Presents have been bought and wrapped and cards have been written. I eventually found the only suitable card in the shop, once I had steered myself away from the rude ones. It would appear that it's bad form to be rude about someone's age once they are past 70. I was tempted though. There was one particular card which made me laugh so loudly, that I had to turn it into a coughing fit, causing the shop assistant who was refilling the drawers beside me, to leap up and pat me, not insubstantially, on the back. But not to worry. Miss R has ordered a couple of two foot tall balloons for the birthday boy's table. As he is rather short in stature, I may bring a booster seat for him, so that he can see over the constant, shiny reminder that he is now 75. So an age-related insult of a card wasn't necessary in the end, as the latex says it all...
Miss R has also arranged a fantastic birthday cake for him. I can't tell you what it is today, as it will spoil the surprise if you are going to the party. We also don't want somebody spilling the beans by mistake. There is another reason for not telling anyone, and that is because we are not too sure what we're getting. We know what we ordered, but 'many a slip' and all that.
Miss R had sent photos, so we can probably assume that it will bear a resemblance, but you never know. The cake lady may have been looking at something else in the photo, and created that, not realising that it was THE BLOODY GREAT RED ***** IN THE CENTRE we were after.
I had to go and do a bit of last minute shopping before the barbarian hordes (aka our children) descended on us. This consisted mainly of bananas and biscuits. The bananas are for daughter number two and me. We can probably eat more bananas in a weekend that the entire Primate Section at London Zoo. However the biscuits are solely for me, when comfort eating is the only escape when gazing upon a house which looks like it's been burgled and a pile of ironing the top of which is pure speculation. I would imagine that by Sunday at around 4.26pm, I shall still be nursing a substantial hangover, and be unable to manage anything more than weak tea and a dunked digestive.
While I am on the subject of biscuits, I rarely buy them, but for some reason I bought two packets this week, one of digestives and one of ginger nuts. I bought the ginger nuts for the husband as I know he is partial to one with a cup of tea. Now I didn't think that I liked ginger nuts (for some reason, they make me think of Mick Hucknall who always looks likes he needs a good wash) but worryingly, by Tuesday last week, I had really got into the swing of the ginger nuts, and my yesterday morning, I polished the last few off, without once thinking of the aforementioned Mr H or the husband and his penchant for them.
I think that this explains why it was necessary for me to buy a new dress on Thursday to wear tonight.
As I had bought an appropriate size (one up from the dresses currently residing in my wardrobe), I might now be able to leave the industrial strength knickers off on Saturday. In a way, this is a blessing, as it stops me worrying about my mortification should the need arise to be cut out of my clothes on the night. This is a lifelong, irrational concern of mine, and guarantees that I will always wear matching underwear and never wear pop socks. Now this may seem slightly bonkers to you, but what is probably more crazy is how appalled I can be when a friend tells me that she just throws on whatever comes to hand first.
And don't even get me started on odd socks...