how late?

3am!
That is the time the clock said when I finally collapsed into my bed on Saturday night - I mean, Sunday morning. 3am!
And here's the weird bit...
No child had woken me up demanding I clean up their vomit.
No siren had gone off on the road outside.
No car had crawled down the road with its thump-thump-music blaring. None of the above!
And, Husband wasn't snoring! No, because he'd been up and about till 3am - voluntarily - with me.
What's this I hear you say? Have you been partying? Yes, I reply! Triumphantly not feeling geriatric for a millisecond. Yes, partying with a capital-P.
Actually, there was a slight geriatric moment at about 930pm when I realised, having quaffed almost a whole bottle of very quaffable prosecco, that I really needed to fill the bubbles in with some food otherwise I'd last about 1/2 hour more before I either vomitted on the purple walls or collapsed messily on the dancefloor - at which point I dragged my husband out of the party (which was a tremendous joint 40th (I know, ok, we're fine with that) of some super brilliant party givers who are also super lovely friends of ours...) down to the ground floor where I demanded copious mounds of bread and butter and cheese and my husband swallowed a burger like it was an inconveniently sized pill. After which, geriatric food requirements over, we returned back upstairs and proceeded to 'rock-da-house' till well after 230am. (Rock-da-house. That's quite a geriatrically sad thing to say. But it has to be said because 'da house' was rockin'.)
And at some point the dj realised that the requests for ABBA were outweighing the requests for any thing that resembled music so he kindly let us have the final request (now I can't even remember what it was) and then he pulled the plug. And like someone letting out the air of a balloon, when silence fell so too did my levels of energy and suddenly all I wanted was to be in my bed, contact lenses out, make up off, pj's on, eyes shut, room not spinning.
We had to go via a cab firm where apparently I roared with disapproval at the fee the poor man quoted us (Husband told me about this in the morning when I was feeling weak and vulnerable from general abuse) and we bumped our way up to Harringay, still shouting as though we were in the club with the music blaring in our ear holes (which it wasn't because we were in a taxi that smelt of floral air freshener, ug - I mean, do they really wonder why people puke in their cabs? its not from booze mishandling its triggered purely by their foul 'fragrant' mirror dangle things).
I thought I'd lost my phone so the friends in our cab frantically phoned the people left at the club (can I call it that? It was a bar, but it was also a club, and although technically our friends had hired a bar, it was so a club because we were there DANCING till 230am... if that's not a club, then tell me, world, what is?) and I drunkenly tried to recall where I'd last used it (no idea other than trying to see what the time was last time I sat on the loo) and then suddenly my pocket was vibrating and I was like 'hey, guys, I'm vibrating! Is anyone else?' - er, no, you thick drunk mare, its your phone. So it was. Phone found, we scrambled up the stairs to our bed via the loo the sink the toothbrush avoid eye contact in mirror at this time of the morning and then bed. Mild spins followed by blackout.

Hurrah.
2 days later I am fit enough to tell the tale.
And guess this? So, I worked out, this is the first time in over EIGHT YEARS! yes, EIGHT YEARS that I have voluntarily stayed up till that stupid hour of the night. Do I blame the children? Entirely.
I thank you.

2feb...

would you adam and eve it?!
its the 2nd feb and still no alcoholic bev has passed my quivering lips. (they don't quiver that often, mostly at the thought of a nice quenching glass of wine... or perhaps the perfectly fresh bagel with the perfect butter and perfect marmite on it... or maybe a freshly baked home made brownie...)
what's happened?
my halo still shineth! brightly! positively blinding!
can you see it? no - that's not the sun!
why such abstinence I hear your enquire? why, you turncoat, have you not yet fallen from your perch of moral highground? get ye to the bottle shop! Absinthe required!
well, its like this see: yesterday, 1st feb, as my liver was getting ready to brace itself for a Victoria Falls sized wave of booze, I realised in fact that I had to be on my course. And given that its a counselling children course I realised that it wouldn't really do to turn up pissed as an old bat who'd fallen into the barrel. Just not the thing really. So, I have had to postpone the reentry into the world of wine for another 24hours. And actually, truth be told, at the end of the day, you know what I mean, innit, to be frank, to be fair, I have to admit, shockingly, (gasps from the crowd) that really, I'm quite happy in my little no booze bubble. And am rather, (more gasps) dreading the re-entry.
A bit like when an astronaut tumbles off the lofty heights of the moon, and then has to go through the trauma of re-entering the earths atmosphere... The astronaut, lets call it, her, "Sheila" for now, just to give her a face. She's got long hair, sort of honey colour, and her teeth are really straight because she had tracks when she was small. Sheila, has been on the moon, all free and clear headed for a long time - lets say, the month of January, and then she realises that she has to come home. And although she wants to she's a bit scared of the voyage. She knows it'll get really hot. And that her face will maybe go all g-force a bit when she goes through the landing part of getting to the earth. So. Understandably, there's ambivalence, right?
Well, I'm Sheila. And right now I'm feeling a bit ambivalent.
Although I am looking forward to a bloody MASSIVE glass of something tonight after bringing the girls back from their hellish ballet class.