Firstly, please let me apologise for my last post. I had had a couple of rather emotionally exhausting days, and clearly wasn’t feeling myself. I am now back though, and to lighten the mood I am going to write about parties. I don’t want everyone to think I am some kind of isolated single parent who spends all their time at home alone, pacing about, writing occasional bursts of gibberish.
I love parties. I get to dress up, drink cocktails and talk to men. What’s not to love? Unfortunately, I don’t often get invited to parties (sob). I don’t know if it’s just that no one I know has them much, or that I am particularly disliked, but I never have to push my way through piles of invitations to get to the front door. It’s the same with weddings – everyone else I know seems to be complaining constantly about having the spend every weekend over the summer at a wedding, but I’ve only been to about five in my whole life.
So, to solve the problem, I basically have to throw my own parties. Being the host has its benefits of course – you get to set the date, choose the fancy dress theme, and not have to worry about staggering home without your shoes on and dropping your chips. It does mean you have to spend the next week cleaning red wine off things, but it’s a small price to pay.
When I lived with Belle’s dad, I didn’t do much entertaining. He was rather unsociable, and the idea of being stuck in a room full of my friends was apparently too hideous for him to contemplate. When I saw him last week he said ‘I bumped into Lorna* yesterday – one of your friends I actually liked’. A charming man. So ever since I have been single I have made a point of having parties. It feels like a way of asserting my independence and rebuilding my life as a single person. My parties are a symbol of my freedom, my sexuality, my fight for equality. OK, I’m overdoing it now, I know – truth be told it’s an excuse to get drunk and snog people, but still…
Last year my theme was burlesque, which gave me the perfect excuse to prance around in my underwear and a few strategically placed peacock feathers.
This year, worried that I had put people off with the whole ‘dress in just your pants’ theme, I went with Grease. The musical, not the lubricant. I even hired a jukebox.
It was awesome. And would you believe that the only place in the south-west for miles around that you can hire a jukebox from is less than a mile from my house?? It was clearly meant to be.
Of course the downside to parties is that you have such a fun time that afterwards, when everyone goes home, the house feels very empty and sad, and you spend a few days feeling slightly depressed, wishing you could live in a big house with all your friends and have parties every night.
I also now have a large a lighty rancid stain on my sofa where someone appears to have passed out with a whole glass of Baileys on their lap.
All part of the fun though.
So there you go. Proof that I’m not too melancholy all the time.
*Name changed so all my friends can imagine they are that person – what an honour!