Sunday, 27 February 2005

of ankles and hedgehogs

I have a problem.

Whenever I drink more than a thimble full of red wine, my ankles swell up so much that it looks like my feet are stuck on to the bottom of my legs at an inflexible ninety degree angle.

This seems to be a product of my maturing years, rather than, as I initially thought, a reaction to the ingredients in homebrew kits (which incidentally often seem to make me hallucinate hedgehogs, which is disturbing, although pleasantly rural).

I am sorry to report that I have fallen off the lenten waggon.

Yesterday's AV job went on until about 2am, which meant that we went to bed at 3.30am. We were woken up by the postman at 8.30 and 9.30, after which we gave sleep up as a bad job and got up.

The logical conclusion to a day spent bimbling around in a haze was to crack open the wine this evening, and now my ankles are the size of zeppelins and will probably be the same all day tomorrow.

Tomorrow night we are going to a belated christmas party/dinner thing hosted by Diana-The-Poacher's company for their waiting staff - we are doing the pin-spots for the tables as a freebie and have got invited along to the party afterwards as an alternative to paying us. We aren't that happy about it, but when the agreement was made Diana's full perfidy hadn't yet been revealed. And a couple of other people we know have been caught in the same honey-trap and should be good company. Also, allegedly, there is free beer.

Issues include:

  • the free beer might be a lie
  • I have put on so much weight that my posh dress won't actually do up at the back without making me look like I am a Diana Dors replicant that is carrying triplets
  • Diana-jobs are NEVER simple - there is always a 'could you please please please just ...' moment at about twenty minutes to show-time that requires the warping of space, time and the speed and properties of light
  • we only had two tickets and as B, R and I think there is safety in numbers, there will be three of us

Solutions include:

  • take ones own emergency alcohol supplies, concealed about one's person - having fallen off the waggon I might as well be dragged in the mud behind it
  • buy a new dress - aquired from the British Heart Foundation shop for £3.25 this afternoon, and, I have to say, looks pretty dashed smart
  • wear the most structured undergarments one possesses and make mental note to self not to wave arms in air too much on dance floor
  • aquire extra invitation - done by having a chat with Diana's oppo at the show yesterday. This solution requires R and another of our client's, Steve, sharing a room at the hotel after the gig - have mental image of them tucked up in bed together like Morcambe and Wise
  • also make mental note to self to bite tongue when Diana holding forth. I am busy sending her good vibes and have her permanently visualised in a nice, comfortable jam-jar so that her stress-vibes don't affect me

I am going to rip the hairs out of my legs with my painful wizzy thing now, in order to facilitate stalking in tomorrow afternoon in a kind of Cinderella transformation from dowdy technician to sophisticated, witty swan.

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