It's 'Harvest Celebrations' time, a feat organised by Pest n.2's tiny village school. No doubt a handful of mothers will come with their husbands and grannies to watch the little ones rejoice in twirling hay necklaces around apples and pears. More entertainment will be guaranteed in the evening, with line-dancing and barn-snogging. I suspect that single mothers might be eyed up with some suspicion by the happily-marrieds, especially if my skirt is shorter than the wives'. I have stamped all my outfits with a big red 'S' letter, but I don't want to ruin their fun.
Chuck invite in the bin.
Village Rugby is organising a dinner and dance complete with awards for the best bunny rabbit (the one on two legs, by the way) and James Bond (the one on three legs, I am assuming). Couples again.
Chuck invite in the bin. Shame, I reckon I'd look good in fishnet stockings and a pink pom-pom tail.
Pest n.1's smart school is also organising a big night for posh parents. I note that the charges are 'per couple'. So, unless I want to eat and drink for two, sit at the little table with no light, by the football pitch, and go home before midnight, I'd be better off staying a pumpkin throughout the evening, blogging.
Chuck invite in the bin.
The secret of opening all these invitations and Hallowe'en dos (the latter being my favourite day of the year) without crying is to do so with about fifteen Kalms tablets in one's tummy.
Shhh! I am not supposed to do that. I was so zonked after the first twenty I took this morning that tam-tam jungle Females United had to take over the house, the children and me.
Still, it beats TV.
