Sunday, 8 July 2012

50 Shades of My Skin Today

I have to say, today has been a a bit of a struggle. As hangovers go, it's not a killer but it's the tiredness that's got me. I'm not made for 2am finishes anymore. And it makes me look like the title of my least favourite book.

Last night was the highlight of our annual social calendar - the Cricket Club Ball. Snooky Dougarry, who you may remember is one of my fellow book club members, was chief organiser so we always knew it would be good. She's not exactly a shrinking violet and she likes a good time as much as the rest of us. However, being chief organiser has its downsides - the weather had been so bad that the venue had to be changed from the usual marquee on the cricket pitch to the village hall where the capacity is 80 fewer people. How do you cull 80 people? Simple really - those who haven't paid upfront and those who aren't in your book club or on your table. So having spent the day changing venue and culling guests and making soon-to-be-ex-friends, she still had time to knock up a cauldron of mojitos. When we were in Monaco on our book-club jaunt last year we pretty much mainlined on mojitos and so they've become our adopted book club drink of choice. Snooky Dougarry's version is better than the one at the top of the Rockefeller Centre:

1 cauldron
9 parts rum
1 part soda
half a bag of silver spoon caster sugar
98 limes
3 kilos of mint.

Hence the evening started well, we got through 2 bottles of rum between 7 of us. 

The Coven while we could still stand

Rhubarb venturing places
others dare not go
The event itself was suitably drunken. I made sure I was drunk enough to lose any dancing inhibitions for 4 hours but not so pissed that I fell over. At least I was pretty sure I hadn't fallen over but was thrown by a text this morning from Softy Moore suggesting I may have done so. Suddenly I started to doubt myself and had to ask The Boy who said he was the wrong person to seek clarification from as he couldn't remember much anyway. I replied to the text seeking reassurance that I hadn't embarrassed myself in any way more gratuitous than usual and was relieved to find out it was Rhubarb Hadman. The text had been addressed to us all. Phew.

And so today has been a struggle. The slightest squeak out of the children has made me shriek like a banshee    and even deadheading the roses was an effort. I know that Waitrose has done quite well out of at least two of us BC members today though. Softy Moore went to get some milk thistle tea for her liver and I went for a leg of pork. Serious comfort food was needed today.

Tomorrow night is BC night. Not only did we girls all sit together at the table last night so that we could discuss 50 Shades and complain about our husbands within their earshot, we've brought forward our meeting so we can further dissect both the true awfulness of that book and the gossip from the ball. Or at least the gossip that anyone can remember. It may be a short evening.

Just in advance of tomorrow,  to let you know that I have indeed started the second of the trilogy - mostly because I was feeling left behind by the other girls and not because I reckon it's any great literary triumph as you well know. It's the only time we have gone beyond the call of duty and actually all finished the book we've decided to read let alone move onto others in a series. I am on chapter 6 and am keeping a tally of the frequency of certain irritating key phrases:

Oh My                       2
Holy Hell                    2
Holy Cow                  4
Holy Shit                    4
Holy F***                 5
Holy Crap                  1
My inner goddess       10
My subconcious          3

May god or some other entity I may or may not believe in please help me get through this book without slitting my wrists.

Having mentioned before that the writing is not the best, I am also starting to notice factual cock-ups, a bit like I enjoy spotting continuity mistakes on TV. Unless it's all a clever ruse on the part of the author to really make the main character (I am reluctant to use the word herione) seem even more magnificently stupid than she could ever actually be without being sectioned:

For example

Christian Grey emails to arrange to pick Ana up to take her to her friend's exhibition opening (bear in mind they only split up 5 days before - rather presumptuous of him). They have to go from Seattle to Portland. The event starts at 7.30pm so he agrees to pick her up at 5.45. When he has his driver drop them off at the foot of a very tall building that has his helicopter waiting on top she is shocked and surprised that they would travel that way. Didn't she think that picking her up at 5.45 to drive 175 miles along the I-5 (I googled it and it takes 2hrs 55 mins apparently) was going to make them a little late? It's also June and while they're in the helicopter, America's most successful businessman talks about chasing the dusk and they marvel at the beautiful orange hues enveloping the city (or some such gut churning rubbish). It's not dusk in Seattle at 6pm at the height of summer. According to it's nearly 10pm. Grr. It drives me mad. I also can't figure out why America's most successful businessman is so behind the times when it comes to gadgets. He buys her an i-pad and then owns up to having bought himself one at the same time. How come he didn't already have one? They're only 400 quid. I admit I don't (but not through lack of dropping unsubtle hints when The Boy is bored in an airport) but my nan does and she's 90! FFS.

Anyway, I think I can quite safely say we probably won't  be on the Mojitos tomorrow night. I might take the litre of rum I won at the school fete though just in case.

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