25 January 2004

Last night I came second in a game of musical statues. I don't understand how, or quite why. All I know is by the end of it I was in so much pain that I couldn't move. Slight self-fulfilling prophecy, and thus surprising that I came second. And I was dancing my socks off just because the DJ promised to buy the winner a drink (the delightful DJ Fatboy and DJ Slim. Yes, I was in Essex).

Not that I needed to bother trying to win a drink. I was surrounded by 'The Family' (yes, I was born into Colchester's Mafia) and thus didn't actually open my wallet all night.

I also heard a 60-something aunt use the phrase "You need some lubrication to get it down your throat."

Last night was the 40th birthday party of one of my many cousins. My parents nearly forgot to pick up her birthday card to take with them.

"I was on my way to the toilet when I suddenly remembered and shouted "Val, have you got the card?" said my father... three times until someone responded to him.

I replied "It's amazing the things you think about when you're on your way to have a poo." with a hint of exasperation.

"It is" said my father getting worryingly excited by the fact that people were listening to him "The other day I was on the loo when I shouted out to your mother 'Weren't you supposed to phone the doctor at one?' and this was about 6!" and then laughed and seemed disappointed by the fact that no-one else viewed this as a particularly hilarious anecdote.

Though, when parents don't act like that, it's just disappointing. When you arrive at your parents house and aren't greeted with the obligatory "What was the traffic like on the way up?" you notice something missing.

Of course, the day they don't ask is the one time you actually have a story to tell. I found myself telling the story about the 10 miles of solid traffic on the southbound carriageway of the A12 unprompted. And no-one listened to me. So, like a chip off the old block, I felt compelled to keep telling the story until someone graced me with a response.

If I ever start shouting reminders to a significant other from the least fragrant room in the house. Shoot me. Please.

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