When all is said and done, I like to think I give good facebook. Why, just the other day, my status update read:
[The NDM] got dressed up, went to the city, drank cocktails, watched a great show, drank more cocktails, didn’t fall over, caught the bus home and threw up. In that order.
Which summed up my recent Mothers’ Group Night Out quite nicely, with the omission of one or two important facts.
Such as that we drank piccolos of champagne on the train into town, which we hid in our handbags between sips, like teenage girls but classier. Or that I let Mistress M and KT give me a Generation Y hairdo. Or even that many of us had started drinking at 3pm.
And then there was the groovy bar in which the aforementioned consumption of cocktails took place. It was a strange and wonderful place. For one thing, the interior consisted of fake grass and garden furniture. But even stranger still, was the mix of clientele. On one table, there was a group of middle-aged men in anoraks, sporting “bum bags” (aka the more titilating “fanny packs” in the US), like they were on some kind of walking tour of the city. And on another table was the most sedate hen’s party ever. Despite their traditionally outrageous headgear (which politely alerted the public to their hen party status) they sat around like they were having afternoon tea with the local vicar. And what’s more, the party was starting to wind up and it was only six o’clock.
“What the hell is wrong with them?” I whispered to KT. “You’d think somebody was getting married or something…”
But KT was too busy eying off an untouched plate of sandwiches on their table. Which I myself had clocked the very minute we sat down.
“Do you think they’re going to eat that food?” KT whispered back.
“No. Do you think we should nick it?”
“Yes.”
Of course, the waiting staff must have been onto us. While I say we were whispering, the truth is we were probably using our Outside Voices because of all that fake grass. Oh, and possibly because of all that alcohol we’d drunk, too. Anyway, the very second the last of the hen’s group left, the waiter swooped in to start clearing away the table.
But that didn’t stop us. Or, rather, it didn’t stop KT, who boldly went right up to the waiter and said: “We couldn’t help but notice those sandwiches haven’t been touched. Do you think we might have them, please?”
The waiter, a prim young man was visibly horrified. He was clearly someone who had never finished off a butterfly cupcake that somebody else’s two year-old had already licked the cream off, let alone someone who pushed the bounds of The Five Second Rule as far as five hours with alarming regularity.
“Those sandwiches, madam, are chicken!” he exclaimed. “And they’ve been at the table for over two hours.” And then he shook his head firmly at KT, and then, for good measure, looked over at the rest of us, and shook his head firmly again.
“Hey, I’m the one who says ‘No’ round here!” I felt like shouting. But then I realised that “round here” wasn’t my own habitat, and that there was no room in the Big City for the rather dubious food hygiene standards I applied in my own home.
KT, unruffled, came back to the table, her head held high.
“Well, it’s a waste of good food!” she exclaimed loudly, in her best mother voice. And we all tutted disapprovingly and muttered things about “the youth of today” and “what a sinful waste” until we had drunk enough cocktails to forget all about it. And when I threw up later, it had nothing and yet EVERYTHING to do with those chicken sandwiches.
Still, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer it if the prim young waiter didn’t find out I threw up later that night. I have a feeling he’d shake his head again and maybe even say “I told you so!”. And that just would not do.
Good stuff!!
Throwing up is only worth it…if you’ve had a fabulous time!
Don’t worry, I indeed had a fabulous time. In fact, I dare say that throwing up made it all the more fabulous because I woke up hangover-free the next day.
Girls go Wild. And even without the dodgy chicken you still hurled. Out of curiosity, where did it come in the vomit scale?
You raise a fair point, Bern. It was a Type 1. A mix of barely-digested Japanese food and warm sake. The kind of thing they might serve in Japanese Retirement Homes.
LOL! I love that you even considered nicking it! Plus, “nick it” – totally cute terminology. It sounds like you had fun – and who needs a hen party when you have hooch in your purse?! I regularly take mine to the movie theater. I like to think I’m being one of the cool kids by pouring my weensy vodka bottle in my slurpee. So much fun!
Vodka in the slurpee? Genius. Pure genius.
you’re a bunch of crazy mother f… just, crazy mothers.
They don’t call us mothers for nothing, Kain.
he he he! shoulda just nicked it! while they weren’t looking! so satisfying when u get away with it! he he! disappointed in the poor effort from the hen’s tho! they’re letting the team down… if I am ever so lucky to BE the hen, I will party like it’s 1999!!! and there won’t be no stopping us!!!!!!
I have to admit that my own hen’s party was a picnic, but that was more because it was cross-generational. HOWEVER, I’d like it stated for the record that the one time I was a bridesmaid, I was responsible for buying a viking helmet for the bride and putting a remote-controlled vibrating dildo on one horn and one of the scariest mo’fo’ condoms on the other. Yes, siree, I know how to party.
Ah see vodka in Slurpee is brilliant but not as good as Kalhua in Vanilla Milkshake – (usually fast food chain type) – lines the stomach and gets you sozzled at the same time 🙂
Yay for no hangover 🙂 Vomiting works every time …
Kalhua in a vanilla milkshake? Is there no end to this brilliance?
And yes, yay for vomit. This blog is turning out to be quite the celebration of vomit and it’s many fine qualities!
are you using regression as a means of getting closer to your children, perchance? you are just too good a mother sometimes, i hope they appreciate it!
Or maybe I was angling for a day in bed, like my husband seems to get every time he comes down with Wine Flu. Stupid no hangover.
Hilarious! And I’m glad you identified where it fell on the Vomit Scale, because I was wondering!
Sounds like a perfectly lovely evening out with the girls!
It was a well-needed night out for all concerned and they are always the best, don’t you think? I go out so little these days that I make the most of it when I do. Obviously.
I have to say that I admire the bravery of the waiter. There is no way I would come between a mother’s group out for a night on the town and a plate of leftovers! The question is was he brave or just very, very foolish? It brings to mind a Hitchcock moment – birds perched and occasionally fluttering on a climbing frame as the school children try to walk away quickly….(with leftovers)
At last, I am SOOOOO relieved to see you as a fully rounded ‘normal’ person…….. and not only the iconic suburban mother-goddess I have always supposed you to be!
What is a Gen Y hairdo? And how does one get one?
Why aren’t you (and your friends) living in my neighborhood?
“The most sedate hen’s party ever.”
Not to be confused with someone’s (about-to-be) husband’s bucks do. Yeeehaw!
You mean the “Buck’s Fizz” afternoon, don’t you. At least you went and looked at pre-recorded nudity… Ah, I feel there is as blog all of it’s own in that one there.
You have the most wonderful adventures.