There was a stressful weekend recently in la vie de la Blonde. But, whilst bitching and moaning about said stresses, it was brought to my attention that a little perspective is probably what’s called for – all my grievances being, as they were, exceptionally middle class.
It all started with a text from the cleaner.
Hi Blonde, really sorry but I can’t make it tomorrow. I started to get inwardly cross. I’m going into hospital. Suddenly less cross, more guilty. Cringe.
“Of course a week without her is fine,” I said on the phone to The Mother, “but it’s just so inconvenient – I’m throwing a dinner party tomorrow night.”
“Well, darling, you’ll either have to do it yourself or make sure the lighting’s low, and give people so much to drink that they won’t notice.”
No prizes for guessing which happened.
It was as I was doing the shopping for dinner on the Friday evening that I was beset by crisis two.
“There’s no avocado, NOR pine nuts,” I fumed on the phone to her again, unloading the shopping into the fridge. “The salad’s going to be a disaster.” I practically stamped my foot, just for effect. Double cringe.
But, mid-afternoon, with a perfunctory vacuum completed and a new salad improvised, I set to making starters. With people arriving at 7pm, I figured that being in joggers, scruffy tee and glasses, with the world’s largest bedhair and horribly smudgy eyeliner at 4pm wouldn’t be a problem. There was time to make and assemble the first course, lay the table, and be freshly showered with a gin in hand by the time people arrived [the spell check thinks ‘gin’ should be ‘gun. Bloody Americans]. And then the doorbell went.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, what now?” The trouble with living in a friendly neighbourhood is that the neighbours tend to be friendly. Up to the elbows in bruschetta, I wandered out to the hall. But no...
“BLONDE!” The Medic leant down, kissed me on the cheeks and presented me with a bottle of fizz. Which was almost enough to make me forgive him for turning up three hours early. But not quite.
“Medic...!” I pushed a tapenadey hand through my hair. “You’re, er... here!”
“Yah, well, I thought it best to leave plenty of time. Never know how bad traffic’s going to be.”
I ushered him into the sitting room and sat him on the sofa with coffee and the papers whilst I did a rush job on being presentable.
Blonde, Gin Operated chided gently as I whinged about my disastrous day on Twitter, you’re starting to sound a bit blonde-PR-complaining-about-the-banker-boyfriend again. Which put me back in my place. At least, it did until fellow blogger and Twitterer Liberty London Girl flagged up the #1stworldproblems hashtag, and vindication was mine. And now all I need to worry about is rearranging the wine racks successfully enough to get The Medic’s fizz on the top of one of them – because magnums of champagne just don’t fit anywhere else.
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