Last night, we had a get-together at the local pub. It was an informal 'thank-goodness-it's-nearly-the-end-of-term' do. We usually have a room and garden of the pub to ourselves, which is good as conversations about children can't be overheard by eavesdropping relatives. As it was a warm evening, we ate outside. Ms Fab spent time hunting fairies with the gorgeous children of one of the teachers, chips were stolen from other people's plates, glasses were smashed and extra puddings ordered.
I do like listening to other people's conversations, although I don't actually understand them all. A couple of teachers got to talking about eyelash extensions. I didn't know there was such a thing. Apparently, you have to lie down with your eyes shut for three hours (Three hours?! I could have read half a book) while someone glues pretend eyelashes onto your real ones. Why would that be necessary? Does anyone actually look at eyelashes that closely?
You, too, can have eyelashes like these
They then started discussing some fat-melting procedure that involves electric shocks. I have to admit this is all a mystery to me. I have never had a manicure, pedicure, massage or facial. If I can't enhance my appearance within my ten-minute make-up routine, then I'm afraid others will just have to put up with how dreadful I look. My ancient hair-dryer is used by Son Number One's girlfriend more than me, and I don't have the patience for hair-straighteners. I think the main reason I refuse to buy into the pampering (I seriously hate that word...) side of things is that I'm too lazy to keep it all up. And I'd rather spend the money on reading material. I do dye my hair - that's my only indulgence. I've dyed it since I was 17, because that's when I started going grey. Thanks, family genes, you've cost me a fortune. Not that I go to the hairdressers, I buy whatever's on offer and do it myself, usually splattering the floor and walls with dye in the process (sorry, Dear Husband, I know it drives you mad).
Anyway, back to the pub...
As it got later, the die-hards congregated around one table and continued conversations, as Mrs Secretary and Ms Titian worked their way through their second bottle of wine. I would have been quite happy to prolong the evening until chucking-out time, but everyone decided it was time to go. 'It's very quiet!' Ms Titian informed us as she walked down the middle of the road. Actually, it wasn't, as she talked loudly all the way home. (At this point in the evening, I finally got Mr Chaos's major and minor profiterole joke. He did say it was a slow-burner....) As Ms Titian stopped admiring the stars and caught up, she flung her arm around Mrs Secretary's shoulders. 'I used to be taller than Mrs Secretary,' she told us, and nodded earnestly in case we didn't believe her. As our group got smaller as people reached their homes, she looked around at us all quite seriously and said, 'You know, we're just like a bus.' I bet she had a heck of a headache this morning.