As the above title would suggest, I had a very adult weekend out in the very adult Home Counties*, doing very adult things.
First off, I had a driving lesson in the run-up to my second driving test here in the UK, which I will probably fail. The fact that I – within 5 minutes of starting my lesson – unknowingly parked myself right on top of some STAY CLEAR lettering in the road doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence.
Then I was off to a wedding reception. A very Essex wedding reception. The only way to do a wedding in Benfleet, one might say. There was an 80s-looking hall. There was a disco ball. There was surly looking barstaff at a makeshift bar. There was a lot of ABBA. There was a lot of group dancing. I didn’t know that 5 group-dancing songs existed, but they all played one right after the other. And everyone else seemed to know them. Finally and most notably, there were a lot of short skirts. Like, really short. Cough-and-your-vulva’s-going-to-pop-out short.
A late night involving 6 G&Ts and a lot of pink and feathers ended rather uneventfully with 1 McFlurry and a surprisingly sober car ride back to the in-laws’.
And then I was off the next day – bright and early – to a christening in Ipswich where:
- 1 pushy priest babbled incoherently for 45 minutes
- 2 babies were sacrificed to Jesus
- And innumerable finger sandwiches were consumed.
It was, indeed, a very adult weekend. A weekend from which I feel I need a counterbalance.
Maybe next weekend I can do more of this:
*Essex – okay so maybe this doesn’t conjure up visions of horse races and utterings of jolly good show, I do say, sir. But I’m glad I wasn’t at Ascot, personally.