A Grimm Epilogue

It was much as I had feared. Last minute raffle prize collection and the need to tie cute pink ribbon, in keeping with the Breast Cancer theme, around the hastily and lop-sidedly copied menu/welcome booklets, a thought which had occurred to me at 1.30am as I left the football club having agreed to cover the bar for just 3 hours which eventually became 6 and a half left very little time for personal planning.

I prioritised the essentials, checking every corner of the house for cat poo, de-scumming the bathroom, toilets and kitchen sink and forming a mound of dirty washing on the landing immediately outside Jack's bedroom door, optimistically hoping he would choose to pick it up and carry it downstairs to the utility room rather than step over it at every access and egress. I was disappointed.

I made it to the hairdressers' with just 2 hours to spare. I didn't have an appointment but had chosen the crummy concession in Asda for just that reason. They couldn't fit me in. I tried my best eye-watery pleading expression. When that didn't work I offered to pay double. Na da! So I bought a hideous gold top that I foolishly thought might look alright beneath a sari and wheel-spinned out of the newly-arranged car park in search of a more customer-focused salon.

I found one after 4 failed attempts. A beacon of light pouring forth onto the damp, deserted streets. I had managed to find the last coiffeuse capable of coaxing my damp-frizzed hair into an elegant chignon, befitting a Society Hostess, albeit one from North Lincolnshire. How was I to know I had chosen the only non-English speaking hairdresser in Scunthorpe? She worked very efficiently and confidently twisted and pulled my hair in an upwards direction. Unfortunately, she didn't seem to grasp exactly what I meant by ' no pincurls and absolutely NO sticky-out bits'. I left 30 minutes later looking like Big Bird Does Vegas.

I had no time to depin and restyle. Sophie was already waiting, her bed still unmade, perching on the edge of the sofa, politely ignoring my suitcase, still half unpacked from the previous weekend at her feet. It took me 3 minutes to realise that I hadn't a frigging chance of remembering how to wrap 23' of traditional Indian silk about me so as not to look like I was wearing the curtains. Jack helpfully disguised my anguished cries with his own, more verbose, complaining about the size of his shirt ( " Look at it. It's like a @"cking parachute!") and the size of his Tux ( " I can't move my arms. I can't move my arms. Do I have to wear this straight jacket?")

The rest of the evening went smoothly enough, once my fellow organiser, the one who only had to bring the raffle tickets, had called his son and got him to deliver the raffle tickets which were still sitting on his kitchen side. One of the tables didn't get any gravy but we had 4 boats on ours, actually we also seemed to have more cauliflower mornay ( that's cheese sauce but posher, it was a Ball after all) but I wasn't about to mention that.

The night was over before I barely had time to give Darbster's new Ladylove the third degree, blag a private tour of the Commons from the MP, although I did have rather a good chat about local organic lamb producers with his wife in the toilet queue, or sneak outside for a shivering bonding session with the wheezing social pariahs. Jack sensibly accepted an early lift home, citing the need for sleep due to an impending match but I suspect the opportunity to share the back seat of a taxi with the beautiful 15 year old daughter of a friend was more of a lure.

There was no Prince Charming, or Desperation Date to witness the horror that was my hair-do, but I didn't have the time to notice.