I went to a party… Uh-huh that’s right.
I enticed the dog from my person with promises of treats. He still couldn’t assimilate why I’d possibly get out of bed at four in the afternoon.
I crawled from my comfy duvet and pjs. Showered and considered shaving my pits, then decided ‘Fuck it, not like I’m wearing a strapless gown and I don’t have the energy to wave my arms in the air.’
I put on a real bra and not a sports vest. Covered my ever-growing baldness with a headscarf. Dressed in proper grown-up clothes (not sweats) and painstakingly applied a slathering of mascara and lipstick.
I hardly recognised myself… It’s been so long since I’ve made any kind of effort to look remotely glamorous. Poor long suffering M.
We then started our trek to the party venue…
We strolled to the bottom of the garden, scrambled through various prickly bushes and ta-dah we’d arrived.
In a dreamy gay pride garden soirée which happened to be playing my type of 80s feel good tunes Dépêche Mode, Erasure etc.
Annoyingly all the hot guys were gay… Actually they were all hot… Probs because they were all gay. Why is it all the hot ones always are? Hope I come back as a gay man.
Our gorgeous host greeted us with cocktails and we partied hard… For 45 minutes!
Now usually M’s the last man standing at a party… It’s his thing.
So when I tugged his arm, looked up at him like a lost 5 year old and said ‘I need to go home now‘ I was slightly taken aback when he said ‘Ok.’
This guy’s a real diamond geezer… Of the ‘Cullinan’ kind.
We got home and I promptly passed out for the next 15 hours.
I might not be gay… But I’m proud. Proud I got my butt up and out for the first time in 3 months!
Furthermore the 15 hours sleep didn’t pass without enlightenment.
It turns out that when we die we don’t actually go to heaven or to hell.
Au contraire… we go to a tent.
I know this because I died (in my dream) and found myself in a posh festival yurt wearing a voluminous pink tu-tu. I could hear David Bowie performing Jean Genie on the main stage.
There was a genie in the yurt, he wasn’t in a lamp, he was floating on a magic carpet. He curled his index finger, with long pointy nail, in a come hither way and whispered ‘Honey, sit over here and rub this.’
So I did.
He then boomed ‘Make a wish little girl. Whatever you wish is my command.’
I asked ‘May I have my hair back please?’
His response ‘No can do… But you can have dinner with 7 dead people!’
Hmm this was tricky but I chose Elvis, my amazing grandparents, Bob Marley, Aristotle, Salvador Dali and Brad Pitt. And not just because I figured they’d have a plethora of drugs between them.
The genie responded ‘You can’t have Brad, he’s not dead.’
So, I very sweetly enquired ‘Oh, umm well can’t you just make him dead? I do have a brain tumour after all.’
Then I woke up.
I must stop watching Killing Eve.