Hen Party.

Hen

Lordy Ladies, you don't wanna cross me today. I'm in a right little strop.

My lovely friend Emma is getting married in a month's time, and being the oh so elegant, oh so refined woman that she is, she is not insisting on donning a tiara and tra-lalling around town with a string of drunken hens behind her, but is rather having an intimate little soiree at the local tapas bar, with three of our friends.

All well and scrumptious if I could go.

Instead I find myself navigating the unchartered waters that is negotiating with Mark about exactly what it is that constitutes sharing the responsibility of our babba.

I say that if the world and it's wife is out socialising tonight and thus I cannot find anyone to babysit, then perhaps it would be oh so generous of him to step in and do his Fatherly duty?

He says that he would be babysitting the house, not his son, and why on earth would he do that?? What am I mad? Or wierd? Or daft? And anyway she who has no name ain't entirely comfortable with the idea...      

Hmmmm. We've reached a stalemate. She's called Nicky.

So it looks like its smoked haddock and a glass of vino in front  of the Tv for me tonight...

Hey ho.