I am still alive.
In arranging the evening, I was told that everyone was ordering tee-shirts and they had to have their name on the back of them. So, taking it literally, I had my name stencilled on my back in bright blue ink. It was literally the talking point of the night (kudos to moi). Everywhere I went, all I could hear was ‘Flangela!’. Lots of people thought it was a real tattoo. It reminded me of the time when Tara asked Debbie if her leather trousers were real and Debbie replied ‘no, they’re only pretending to be trousers’. I laughed so much I almost peed myself. The only downside to ‘standing out in the crowd’ was that I was the ‘sucker’ that was made to join the stag night boys at the back of the bus. When I confronted the organiser later, he said ‘you were the only one brave enough’. I still don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.
On the way up there, we realised it was the ‘Tour de France’ and half of London was cut off. Luckily, two very nice policemen took pity on us (thanks to Deb and her silver shoes) and ushered us through a tunnel. VIP treatment all the way.
Despite all my moaning and agroaning about having mushy feet (see previous blog) I wore the same shoes out again. Deja vu. But I was brave and suffered the blisters (two nurofens helped). Why do I always think that this time dancing in heels won’t hurt?
And, to round off the evening, we stopped at the kebab shop – now I have to face my car stinking of grease and chips tomorrow. Oh well, at least it beats sick.