Ten Thousand Sheets to the Wind

Three of my best friends and I spent a lazy Sunday Afternoon together drinking champagne in the sun. All the kids were in the pool with the men-folk and were gently swatted away when they approached us. Apart from the Divine Ms M’s 9 month old baby, who is as cute as a Chanel button. He was allowed. Uberkate was hosting and Mrs Finlayson was pouring. And we were talking. All at the same time. Talking shit, drinking champagne, eating nibbles.
Talking, Easting. Drinking.

Then The Divine Ms M stopped talking.

And started choking.

Now usually when something life threatening occurs, I do the dance of panic. You know, running on the spot with my hands flapping. letting out the occasional squeal. Certainly not remaining calm and being of any assistance whatsoever.

But because I was not quite ready to farewell my dear friend forever, I dragged her into the bathroom and promptly began doing the Heimlich manoeuvre. I seriously had not idea what I was doing, apart from perhaps cracking a few of her ribs. Then as she started turning a lovely shade of duck egg blue, I remembered something I read once in a Doctor’s waiting room, and began thumping her back like Mike Tyson.

Save one of your best friend’s life?

So we celebrated in true Australian style. By drinking. And a few hours later, Mr Woog and 2 sodden Woogettes decided Mum had had enough and picked their way over the empty wine bottles and suggested it was time to go. Us girls all hugged and declared our undying love for one another before making our way home in the early evening. And as we pulled into our street, my head was bobbing around like a bladder on a stick, when I noticed our street party was in full swing. And I had some unfinished business to attend to. Peter.

Those who read this little blog regularly may recall an exchange between Peter the Neighbour and myself last week. If not click here. I will wait.

After playing God earlier in the evening, I was starting to believe I was invincible. And Peter was on my list. Despite Mr Woog warning me that I may have reached my limits of lubrication, I swanned down the street to the group gathered outside Number 45. Peter thankfully was not in attendance, but as I was handed a plastic cup of warming Riesling, I regaled the crowd with the story, and warned them if I saw any of them talking to Peter, they too would be blackballed.

Slander Peter and make a dick of myself?

Monday mornings are bad enough, rushing around making lunches and doing emergency loads of washing because you cannot find a clean school uniform. But this one was worse as I was currently housing the hangover from hell. Mr Woog insisted I call Mr Fisher and Paykel and sort the beeping, dying fridge out. Mr F&P of course did not show up yesterday, so please enjoy a short film depicting how I spend it and why I am never drinking again. And finger’s crossed the fridge mechanic turns up today, because otherwise he will join Carrie Bickmore and Peter on my list.

till then,