Burning Bottom

Ouch. I just had a bath with really amazing bath salts (Burts Bee's) given to me for my birthday but I don't think the salts dissolved 100% so as I lay there in the close-to-boiling-bath-water (how I like it) reading my book (such a good book even though I've forgotten what its called) I realised that my arse was actually burning. Not like smoking burning (that would be hard in a bath) but sort of stinging burning and I realised that I was lying on undissolved megga-strong-Burts Bee's Bath Salts which were now dissolving my bottom skin rather than dissolving directly into my close-to-boiling-bath-water.
The idea behind the bath was a cleanse-the-body-from-the-weekend-of-excess - but not to purge myself by consciously skinning parts of my body. Anyhow, I'm not sure that burning my arse on Burts Bee's Bath Salts would absolve me of my booze sins and disgraceful dancing on Saturday night at The Wedding.
So. A short lived Bath. One chapter claimed of my book (was aiming for 2 or 3...).
Talking of absolving me of my booze sins from the weekend reminds me of the weekend and what an extra-lovely (booze fueled) weekend it was.
Looking back on my previous blog entry I'm wondering how I faired when it came to my wedding prep-hit-list?
I certainly ate at least half a loaf of white bread on Sunday morning to soak up the champagne & wine & beer & fags (and the same at lunch and then a large pizza for dinner).
I certainly danced exceptionally brilliantly, no, wait, check that - cast my mind back 48 hours, oh, no, not brilliantly! BADLY! to Dancing Queen AND Don't Stop Me Now (Queen, ah, gawd-bless-you-Freddie... I'll never forget hearing about your Death. I was in a woodwork lesson at school and Radio One (Steve Right?) was on. And then me and Mirry ran to our study and wrote to Radio One declaring our undying love for the now dead Freddie).
Amazingly given the height of my not-real-gold-shoes I didn't fall over at all and the loo's were in a field too which was difficult terrain to master. But I saw two women fall off their chairs in between speeches (high heels sticking up in the air, pants and tights a-kimbo, all dignity and sobriety out the marquee window...) and then I captured on camera another woman climbing out of a bush having fallen into it on her way back from the porta-loo.
Our gorgeous friend The Bride really was the star of the show. A luminescent Audrey-Hepburn-esque presence. Floating around in a gown fit for film-stars with the broadest smile of happiness. Glowing&Gorgeous. Drop-dead. And now I believe her and her new husband are off in Italia soaking up the remaining September sun and drinking in the Chianti and sucking on olives. I am more than mildly jealous.
But it is true that only the best couples go to Italy for their honeymoons.
As far as I know that really is the truth about honeymoons and couples. Scientifically proven. By me.
So as I sit here with a tingly bottom, purging myself of the last few units of incredibly delicious champagne, I'm thinking, yes, weddings really are splendid and I'm wondering, who's next? and How long do I have to wait till I can don another pair of silly high heels and wobble my way through a night of excellent frolics with all my most-excellent friends?
(Someone mentioned they may get divorced just so that they can get married again... well, if all else fails...)
In the meantime I have snapfish for memories, flashbacks of dancefloor anthems and the image of a lady climbing out of a bush trying to retain her dignity whilst actually nearly peeing herself (again) laughing.
I love weddings.