My So-Called Life
It's been a bit of an odd summer, altogether.
The torrential rain is one thing.
It is downright peculiar.
Add to it the plague of slugs and, even worse, huge swarms of wasps and there is definitely the feeling we have all stumbled, regrettably, into a low-budget horror movie. Or one of those 1970s films about the Old Testament, in which they all wear rather too much blusher (I'm not talking about the women).
We have had about 10 wasps from the swarms actually make it into our house each day.
Ok, so it may not sound all that apocalyptic to you...but you've never seen me around a wasp.
We haven't got along ever since I sat on one during an interview for school.
There is something somewhat...inappropriate? undignified?...about the woman in whose hands your entire academic future rests holding you while you sob unconsolably and swabbing at your bum cheek with antihistamine.
Luckily I was only five.
Since then, I have kept my contact with the little buggers to a bare minimum.
This approach offered the added bonus of being able to avoid camping trips.
I've heard they don't have showers there.
On this occasion, however, I didn't have much choice other than to face the wee monsters. I was extremely proud of myself that I managed to pull myself together and shoo them out of the house in a swift and efficient manner. As befits one who is an adult, now, and has others to consider (cats).
During the whole sorry affair there was only one minor screaming incident. Regrettably this occurred just as the postman walked up to the open window to pass me my bills. I think the fact I was still in my pyjamas only added to the picture.
Still, I have definitely made progress. I am thinking I am not afraid of wasps anymore.
Sadly, neither are my cats. They do not seem to associate playing with those lovely buzzy stripy things with the hissing and yowling that goes on for half an hour afterwards. 'Mummy,' they whine, 'Mummy, who is this horrid Invisible Man poking at us with needles?'
Yep. My kitties are a bit thick. But then, so am I. As my husband will attest.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my best friends from high school got married.
I would love to say I was anticipating the event with joy. It would suggest I am a normal, decent person and friend.
However, my real feelings were something more along the lines of dread, angst, panic, horror...
I am sure some of you know where I am coming from.
You receive an invitation to a long-awaited event. Yes, yes, it will represent the culmination of a close friend's happiness, but that isn't the point, really, is it?
The point is that it is going to be packed with people you haven't seen for the last five years, and to make it worse you will have to wear a dress.
So, it's safe to say I was not in the best of moods in the car on the way to the ceremony. Not least because we had spent a frantic morning trying to get the brakes on the car fixed in time actually to go.
Nothing like sitting around the car shop in a silk skirt that makes you look like a small green blimp. Whilst accidentally almost stealing someone's dog.
I won't go into that...but I will offer this one piece of advice: If you are fat, never wear a tulip skirt.
Ahem. Anyway.
Finally, the brakes were fixed, we were sitting in the car, rushing inexorably onwards, headed for our terrible fate.
At least we were dressed up for it.
I opened up the invitation, out of sheer boredom (OK, so maybe I am exaggerating the blind terror a little).
I had a read. Laughed at their middle names. Checked the details.
Ah.
Whoops.
I had got the wrong date. We were a week early.
OK. Now this is where I get a bit miffed. Because no one in the car would believe me. They just couldn't accept that even I could be that stupid. Ah, but they were wrong.
Once the invitation had been passed round, and general exclamations of incredulity shared, we turned around and headed back home. Everyone was pretty peed off. My Dad, who had spent his morning ferrying us from one appointment to the next, because of the car. My husband, who had driven the 250 miles to get us to the wedding in the first place. And was going to have to drive it again tomorrow. And the next week.
And me? Well, not exactly. Sure, I pretended to be annoyed. It was only polite. But inside? A secret, warm core of glee. Because I didn't have to go to the wedding...for another whole week.
A reprieve. A stay of execution.
And, what was more, I had had the lucky experience of, as it were, a flash of my future.
I knew how bad this wedding was going to make me feel. And now I could do something about it.
There was a lot I could do in a week. Lose half a stone...tone up my stomach...get rid of that sickly pallor from too much Domino's. Buy a top that didn't reveal three inches of bra.
And anyway, that was next week. I could spend this afternoon shopping/barbecuing/at the pub...anything, in fact, that didn't involve bad food/speeches/spending three hours talking to a complete stranger about current affairs, while he stared down my top.
In fact, everything was going to be great.
Fast-forward...same day, same place, a week later. I am sitting in the car, hair gleaming, makeup perfect, nice flat little tummy...
...yeah, right. I hadn't managed to lose weight in the six months preceding the wedding...so naturally I didn't do it in a week. No...I managed to find a friend's party to go to instead of the wedding. There was nice food. And vodka. So I thought 'well, one more day won't make a difference', and then I carried on from there.
I did manage to buy a new shirt. But, in general, my stupidity didn't actually get me very far. Having said that, I actually had a pretty good time at the wedding. My friend was so happy. The food was good. The bloke next to me didn't stare down my top.
Although given his general personality, I think that had more to do with my carefully positioned napkin than anything else.
And my husband loved all the driving.
When I got home, I was in buoyant mood. I thought the worst was over.
But I was wrong. Because, obviously, several hundred people had taken photos of all this.
And they were all over Facebook the next day. So even people who (blessedly) weren't there could witness my humiliation.
Weddings. Who needs 'em, really? Just pure, ritualised torture.
Ah well. It could be worse.
At least there is a full year before the next one.
Plenty of time to sort myself out 
.
Love Rach xxx 
