03 February 2007

When I'm 60 - er - thingy

In the positive thinking US of A, I would, tomorrow, be turning a triumphant Sixty Won, but in my mind it's geriatric country.

Plus, I am sadder than I have been for many a moon, having come a bad cropper over a lady ...

Eh bien, move on, and none of my pals know of it.

When the great date was being planned, mama handed me a pink ticket to invite "a few friends" over, this meaning the usual suspects from *her* rolodex of acceptables.

Instead, I decided to be naughty and rustle up a few of my own cronies from the dark side and throw *them* in with the toffs. It will be great fun and they will get on famously.

I was telling Pericles that I wanted the whole shebang:

  • Unseemly rowdy behaviour
  • Him on bouzouki singing out THE most vulgar student songs
  • Mascara in the cake
  • Mascara in *my* cake
  • Sambo the dawg bolting for cover
  • Maybe even the birthday boy tossed into the sub-temp pool

    Pericles: Christo, Grik is beautiful language with many rules for change. You must learn.

    If rule stay rule, that is big change.

    Loipon. When 'throw' and 'swim pool' include in same sentence, cannot have 'may' verb. It always change to 'will' 'must' 'what we wait for'.

    Is not like wine when not so much in bottle and it *may* necessary for new cask.


    Sooper Bowl: Good excuse to dredge up my fave tale from my early days in Bainbridge.

    The Spitfire's birthday falls on Jan 25 so we'd time her birthday for the nearest Sunday, which was usually also Bowl day when all good men polished their plasma screens and ordered in the guacamole only to be told by wifey that *they* weren't looking after little Martha ...no way, *they* were orft to a jolly old gossip with the sisters.

    So here's this dude outta nowhere organizing a party for the (literal) babes? Say what?

    First year I got this call from mellifluous voxed pater reminding me that his gal and my A- were best of budettes and yo! the invite seemed to have got lost in the mail. On checking, daughter of mel-vox and my pomme d'oeuil seemed NOT to be that close, until MV hinted that, aw, did i really want to deprive the fright of my loins of a prezzie of unseemly generosity and coolness? Clinched.

    And so for the next few years it as Bowl time approached, the Buskerine became the gal most likely to.

    And this year, it's MY day.

    How I long to be in the US and sending out invites to all and sundry and watching them squirm over refusals, offering instead their pre-teeny daughters as substitutes.

    Can't you see the Banbridge Review headline, wrinklie's 61st hosting nothing but juvies? (Actually, prolly be the best party I'd had in a long time)

    Eeek, yaroo, splash

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