Dressed up like James Bond for posh cocktails last night, and then 11 of us in our glad-rags trooped round the corner to the local fish and chippie. There were sparklers and many bottles of fizz, and a whopping great chocolate cake too. What a brilliant way to celebrate being past it.
Amongst the learned and astute conversation, I used the dead clever analogy "like knowing what pants you're wearing". And was then a bit surprised that most of our party actually knew.
Pah. It's not something I ever remember, anyway. Is it Darth Maul? Is it Wallace and Gromit? Is this too much information?
H. is getting married and C. is starting to show. J. was telling me about SpongeBob though I already knew.
The After Eights (yes, that's how posh we were being) came with a game where I was Madonna and the Dr John Tavolta, and in Celebrity Top Trumps Brad Pitt proved more chav than Johnny Depp. Perhaps this is because he boffed her-out-of-Friends, I suggested.
No, I didn't know who any of the other trumps were. Apparently there's some bloke who is Famous because he went out with somebody who went out with somebody in EastEnders. Good for him. But as H. (a different one from the getting-married H.) and L. went through the cards, I could only respond as the elderly Duke of Wellington did to the names of the new Tory Cabinet in 1850.