:: Blergh! ::

Weekend round up
On Friday I went to wave off Little Miss Bling before she goes to Italy at some bar near Mornington Crescent. But didn't stay long because I'd promised to go to BGB's birthday bash [cue pathetic moans of "I'm too young to be 24" etc.]. This turned out to be quite *Gi-yay* as BGB and Little Robbie might have it and, for my sins, after jigging about to some pumped-up-megalove-buttfuck-remix of Geri Halliwell's execrable Lift Me Up I dozed off in an armchair.
Waking up 2 hours later I find that the party's still going on in a reduced capacity and recommence with the Gin. Gleefully recounting to one of the assembled that I have indeed managed to secure the post of Feste in a production of Twelfth Night (see previous posts), I decide that Mummy darling (away in Sweden) might like to be informed via a text.
It's 7.30am and in sunny Sweden, an hour ahead, Mumsy has just performed her ablutions ready for a wholesome day's activities and texts back almost instantaneously. So I decide to phone her. And blithely go on to explain at length how I'm so excited about the part and have also applied for a new job and will have to buy a penny whistle but don't know where to get it and that I'm still drinking G&T at seven-thirty in the morning...
Later on Saturday, Tigger called to say her flatmate was celebrating her birthday at their flat with cocktails. Groaning, I went along and stuck to virtuous cranberry juice. Even when we headed off to The Elbow Room, I managed only a couple of glasses of water. But this was countered by the surprise arrival of numerous old friends from University (to a separate party) and I managed to enjoy it in spite of myself.
Much recovered after an early night and Sunday lie-in, I reconvened with Tigger to hit the British Museum. She and I both felt that recent weekends had focused a little too much on the drinking and we were ready for a quick fix of culture. Things were slightly complicated by the machinations of her current multiple love-interests, but this didn't deter us too much from joyful contemplation of relics and ancient treasures. I hadn't realised how many nipples were on display at the BM, but this cheered me up no end. Anthony Gormley's pictures were amusing, touching and a little bizarre. Although appreciative of the artist's search for new creative materials (rabbit skin glue?!) in the context of the human form, I couldn't help but snigger at the painting whose ingredents were blood and semen. It appeared as if he either wasn't very prolific or had failed to get it all on the canvas... A quick jaunt round Covent Garden and Soho was not sufficient to enable us to find Tigger's flatmate a present, but I still returned home in good spirits just in time to catch the Antiques Roadshow. Just as some old biddy was having her scrap-heap finds valued, the phone rang.
It was my mother calling to say she'd got home safe from Sweden. "We had a fantastic weekend," she cooed. I pictured her pert twisted smile. "I bought some Swedish candlesticks; what was this about a play?" Feeling every bit the Bertie Wooster caught out by domineering old Aunt Agatha, I stuck to the facts of the case but didn't have the balls to blurt out an apology.