Hip Hip Hurry

I'd not been up long when Sophie's Mum rang to say they were on their way over to drop off some furniture I was adopting from them. Fortunately, I was dressed and had even cleaned my teeth but I had no make up on so I as good as felt naked. I didn't have time to worry about that though. The place was a tip. They would be horrified. Why hadn't I come home from work last night and washed the pots, sorted the laundry, hoovered up, wiped the smears off the mirrors, and hidden the empty wine bottles like any normal person? Oh! 'Cos I'd worked until almost 10pm to make up for the day off I'm having on Monday and then I'd just about had the energy to crawl onto the sofa, under my blanket and chat on the phone to Darbs for a few minutes before falling asleep in the Shed, waking at a little before 4am sufficient to drag myself up to bed.

There was a knock at the door almost immediately. They only live at the bottom of the hill but I doubted Sophie's Dad drives like Nigel Mansel ( Stirling Moss would be more likely given the era). It was the postman with a huge pile of letters and a couple of parcels. My sister is always really efficient at sending presents well on time for birthdays. That put paid to the emergency cleaning, which would have been a waste of time and effort 'cos my housekeeping credibility was already as good as dead.

They'd brought me a lovely Salix ( Pussy Willow) covered in catkins. It's gorgeous. I spent quite some time cooing over it and trying to find a suitable place in the postage stamp garden to plant it. I'm hoping that might have deflected the attention away from the scuzzy state of the house. No sooner had they gone ( off to the municipal tip, no doubt for a bit of cleansing therapy in comparison to my kitchen) than I was out to pick Jack up. He'd not slept in the woods but he and his mates had been running around them the previous evening and he'd crashed at Drew's with Alasdair. I had to get him to the rugby club to wait tables at the pre-match lunch. Then straight home, quick swill under the shower, aimed the hairdryer in the general direction of my head and then off to the sponsors' box to watch Dull RUFC beat Huddersfield with a resounding 64-40 score.

Uncharacteristically, I didn't stick around long enough to see the Man of the Match trophy presented ( or rather to ogle the Thighs on the Man of the Match) as I had agreed months ago to work behind the bar at the football club. There was an Abba Tribute band playing. I couldn't for the life of me think what had possessed me to agree to work. I must have been in a particularly self-loathing mood that night.

My phone rang halfway home. I could see from the screen that it was the manager from the football club ringing. It ran out of charge just as I succeeded in getting it out of my handbag in the passenger footwell as I took a roundabout rather sharply ( I'd never have reached it otherwise). I thought he must want me to go in early so I drove straight there, thinking I could always pop up home for my honorary Fruit of The Loom "Staff" polo shirt later.

Seems somehow he'd got the idea it was my birthday ( ok - maybe I gave him that idea when I'd phoned him yesterday afternoon trying to weedle out of the shift, and it's the nearest Saturday so it's not too big a fib), they hadn't sold as many tickets as they'd hoped ( it's a Tribute Band, ffs - Duh!) and I got the night off. Woo Hoo!

Quick call to Rachel, another to Debbie and I was on my way to a curry night at the golf club where I witnessed the wonder that is modern-day hip replacement surgery. Boy! can those old codgers go. Our table brought the mean age down by a good 15 years ( and the next youngest on that was at least 10 years older than me).

I now have less than 24 hours to live out the last of my youth. Should I go clubbing? Find a Rave? Drop some Es? Maybe I'll just go to the garden centre to buy a spade. To bury the Salix. I think 35 is the new 19.