I greet you on this fine Monday feeling all brill and energised…
This is because over the weekend I wangled THIRTY-ONE HOURS STRAIGHT WITHOUT KIDS. Well, my friend’s kids were there but other people’s kids are like toast in other people’s houses; essentially the same, but curiously much, much BETTER.
I got on a train to London ON MY OWN where the plan was to read a bit and think alot and have massively creative ideas but almost immediately became a glorious two-hour nap.
On arrival in our fine captial city, I headed straight outside to smoke because I was ON MY OWN and WITHOUT KIDS. London was southern and hot and my wardrobe was northern and wrong so I popped in to Oliver Bonas and spent a fortune because I was ON MY OWN and WITHOUT KIDS and also extremely boiling and menopausal and in need of a new top.
I then tackled the tube. This means adopting an exaggeratedly busy and mildly pissed-off demeanour. It says, I am a Londoner and NOT a tourist and I have taken so many tubes it holds no thrill for me and I don’t need to look at any maps because I know these tubes like the back of my city-living hand, so I’m just gonna sit here looking at my phone like all the other tubers and fanning myself with a book in a totally absent-minded this-is-routine-tube-travelling-behaviour and not giving the game away by accidentally catching the eye of the man opposite just as I accidentally smack myself in the face with the book.
For the next 24 hours, alongside my fellow escapee, I drank Mojitos and fine red wine and ate tapas and smoked ten thousand fags and talked non-stop and hardly slept and laughed ’til people stared and although I do alot of that, alot of the time, this time it was SPECIAL because I was doing it IN LONDON and WITHOUT KIDS.
Because the world of politics and violence is falling apart around our Mojitos, and because my friend and I are incredibly intelligent, socially-aware women, we got down to some seriously deep discussion, the highlights of which were:
- That Mojitos should always be BOGOF when you are out with your BFF.
- That being chatted up by your 75yr old Spanish waiter is more delightful than the patronising attempts of the 25yr old one. 25 man winks and clucks at you half-arsedly. 75 man compliments your eyes and your incredibly sophisticated taste in wine.
- That spending £40 on a bottle of wine is completely compulsory when you are IN LONDON and WITHOUT KIDS.
- That we don’t get paid enough actually and must start web-camming for an audience of 75yr old Spanish waiters who will pay to watch us drink fine red wine whilst naked which sounds like an ideal way to earn a living.
- That having kids is great while they’re in your womb but after that, your life rapidly turns into an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H where you play TopDog, fending off constant attempts to challenge your authority whilst eating dreadful food and wearing the same clothes everyday and behaving violently towards your minions whilst smoking fags and plotting your next escape.
With the world all sorted out, it was time to head home. Determined to squeeze every second of special out of my final two hours WITHOUT KIDS, I upgraded to first class.
I laid out my free food and free drinks on the special table with the special lamp and plugged my phone in to the special socket, ready to use the special free wifi to do some writing next to the huge window with it’s gloriously special view and promptly fell asleep, waking up 5 mins before home which I spent ingesting all the free stuff and taking daft pics of myself until we pulled into the station and there was my youngest looking EDIBLE in shorts because in my absence summer had arrived up north and he couldn’t wait to show me all the cleaning and tidying he and Gwyneth had done and even all the washing and dinner was in the oven and wine was chilling in the fridge and that is why my next escape is scheduled for this weekend because the cellar could do with a clear-out…