I had plenty of time on my hands last night. My husband was at work so it was just me and the dogs. I already had run the Hoover over the house on Sunday afternoon to avoid the traffic jam of household activities that coincides with bin night every Monday so that, too was off my list.
On the weekend, I had bought a rather suspicious looking packet of chilli marinated tofu, which was vacuum packed, so looked a bit like a brain in a tight-fitting bag. After stir- frying some vegetables I added the beige and red lumps and had that for dinner on Sunday. It was quite good but plentiful, so only a matter of re-heating the leftovers for dinner on Monday.
The dogs were walked and I was back with them by quarter past six and the only programme I wanted to watch on TV was over by 8.30pm, so the rest of the evening was spent pottering around and getting ready for today.
We are running a formal event tonight, which I am down to MC. This means that I have to try and look halfway presentable, which is always a challenge. Other than the obvious physical problem of being almost as wide as I am tall, there is the additional difficulty of my utter lack of interest in fashion, my refusal to pay more than $20.00 for an item of clothing and my hair, which is the very definintion of ‘fine and flyaway’ just like in those 1970s adverts.
Lucy followed me around the house, unused to this level of activity as I burrowed into the back of the wardrobe and started pulling out clothing that I have not worn since Xmas, or before. Some of it was buried under multiple bits and pieces on the one hanger, but finally I located the skirt I was looking for, which on a tiny person would look great. It has a couple of layers and angles at the front and a small slit up the side so it sort of swooshes around.
Next I located my ‘old faithful’ jacket, which is a made of naturally wrinkly material so is not allowed to be ironed. For this kind of care label, I am prepared to pay extra. Nothing pleases me more than seeing the words DO NOT IRON on something as for the most part I won’t anyway and it will just stop the inevitable row when I have to try and convince my husband that the heat of my body will cause the creases to ‘fall out’ or when my mother refers to me ‘The Count of Monte Creasto’.
Finally, I decided to mix it up a bit and added a relatively new T-shirt with fake flocking on the front. I have never worn it because it is short and stops at my waist, which no longer exists, but because of the jacket, I felt I could maybe get away with it. I was just about able to confirm this (as we have no full length mirrors in the house) by precariously balancing in my bedsocked feet on the edges of the bath and looking at the mirror above the sink in the bathroom.
I hung all the clothes over a hanger on my wardrobe door and added a bag which would hold some make-up and a spare pair of tights. Lucy was still following me around, her face full of concern, convinced that I was about to flee the state. Every other time she has seen me do this, I have ended up wheeling a suitcase out of the door and disappearing for a couple of days or weeks.
‘Not this time, girl,’ I said, but failed to mention that in four weeks, this is exactly what it will be. For now though, I was done.
‘We are ready to rock’n’roll, Lucy!’ I said, and she jumped up onto her hind legs and put her front paws on my thighs wagging her tale, because I was finished with walking around the house, because I was ready for bed and not getting on a plane and because that is just the kind of rock’n’roll kinda gal that she is.