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Sunday, 8 February 2009

Nights out - but at what cost?

Last night, I went out for about the second time in six months. The occasion - the local Motorclub's 40th anniversery. Huw used to do rally driving and spent his weekends putting knackered old Fords back together. Personally, I hate anything to do with motor sports, avoiding cars whenever I can and using them simply for A to B journeys and storing apple cores and lollipop wrappers. Therefore, the evening wasn't one I was presuming to enjoy.

The first problem came in the form of a little text from the babysitter that had been booked for four weeks, saying that something (i.e something better) had come up and that she couldn't make it - perhaps she'd come round again when the weather was better. A mate was hurriedly roped in.

We were anticipating leaving at seven p.m, so at fourish, I thought I'd sneak off for a half an hour's snooze to set me up for the night. I woke at half six. The children had not been fed or watered and no copius notes written about what they might want / do.

Our mate arrived amongst a frantic hunt for my shrug, in the same monster truck that was featured in the blog of 5th Oct. I found a pair of trousers that would allow me to sit down and we sprinted for the car.

A friend was also dragged along by her husband who used to shout "litter!" as he drove round corners. The friend and I decided that we couldn't allow it to be a completely wasted evening and so ordered cranberry juice all night so that at least we could flush out our urinery tracts.

Despite all that, it was actually good fun, although the three hours of amusing speeches could perhaps have been squeezed into two, the mash could have had a little less glue in it and it would have been nice if they'd turned the heating on. I won a box of chocolates in the raffle and am sat here now with them being thrown across the room into my open mouth, each with a request for another cup of tea.

By midnight I was getting a little figety, as the nominated driver I was getting tired and a little worn by conversations about the gear box on a series 47. By 1.30, I was yawning as loud as I could whilst lying on the carpet next to the dance floor. Luckily another little text saved the day:

"Some tw*t has driven into the back of my truck" it read.

With relief in my heart, we went home to find the monster truck surrounded by broken glass with a dent in the back big enough to hide a sheep. The friend, who sometimes phones just to tell Huw how much he loves his truck, was sad, but pragmatic, having rolled it himself in the snow earier in the week.

To put the tin hat on his night, we have now leant him our car so he has to drive around in something that has so much litter in, it makes people feel sick.

A good night all round I think.