Apologies… if you’re easily offended by toilet talk.

This is my second attempt at this particular blog as I’ve just re-read the one I wrote previously and bloody hell… I do not write well at all when intoxicated. I definitely need to limit myself to one or two if I’m planning on making any sense at all. Writing from my bed, next to a passed out husband after a heady mix of prosecco, wine and various cold meats and cheeses may well seem like a lovely idea but the words, or lack thereof are absolute shite.

I’ll set the scene anyway, the town I reside in is no London with it’s bright lights and stacks of nocturnal activities to satisfy a range of tastes and desires. No, no. You either eat a curry or a kebab, oh and now apparently a Domino’s. So when our local Deli which is stocked to the rafters with all manner of Italian deliciousness decided to open in the evening for wine and anti-pasti I actually thought it was a joke at first. When I realised it was in fact a reality and that this was an option, I was all over it like dung bettles on a turd – plus the fact that it is in walking distance of our house literally made my year (see how deprived we are?). So anyway, it did not take long for us to find an excuse to go, as it’s Christmas and all… it would be rude not to.

Now I know I’ve briefly touched on parents venturing out together before but the more we do it, the more I have started to realise that there is a definite trend in behaviour. There is a sort of mania that ensues when a gathering of first time parents of children under 2 takes place. Hysteria appears to be a common feature. The mothers of the herd take on a somewhat high pitched tone, and acquire the ability to skull an entire glass of prosecco in approximately 10 seconds flat, whilst the fathers of the group all of a sudden become acutely proud of their child’s ability to belch, fart and pull their own penis.

It would also seem that certain topics of conversation usually deemed distasteful and inappropriate become a focal point and each couple is more than willing to share stories regarding the texture of turds, what part of the nail said turd may have embedded itself in, as well as that awful moment when you are absolutely sure you’ve got every single trace of defecation only to discover you’ve smeared it through their hair on removal of the babygrow and got it all over your forearms… Gross I know, but I have come to love the fact that this sort of talk is acceptable and pretty much reveled in by parents alike. It’s like a secret turd society – one where everyone relates to the fact that love really does conquer all, even the desire to vomit on your own child when they smear their own poo down your face, sometimes not narrowly missing your actual mouth.

Upon reflection of our evening out on Friday, I have made a timeline of observations:

Arrival at venue: The usual kisses, hugs, hello’s and ‘oh wow, don’t you look nice – yes, thanks I’ve washed my hair’. Followed by the, ‘how did they go down? – Yes fine, I wore them out today so hopefully they’ll stay asleep and behave for my mum’

Ordering of drinks: The big decision, you’re out for the night and taxis are booked so do you go with a glass to start and be polite or hit it like you mean to go on and order a bottle. Bottle – economically this makes sense.

First drink: Poured, lots of ‘cheers’, glass clinking and someone inevitably spilling their drink through over-excitement (this was me). Takes approximately 1 minute before topping up is required.

Second drink: Oh, now this is nice. Bedtime is forgotten and everyone starts to relax a little. Phones get switched from loud to vibrate, because obviously we still care but that anxiety of leaving them has very rapidly dissipated.

Third drink: Well this is bloody marvellous. Rose tinted glasses are well and truly back in their boxes and now it’s time to roll on the parent chat about the aforementioned turds, how you may or may not have given them half of your mince pie so you didn’t feel guilty about eating the whole thing to yourself (although you licked off the sugar, you know… to reduce their sugar intake), how they’ve ruined your boobs and your husband needs to save for a boob job… the usual.

Fourth Drink: Children, what children? Actual adult, non baby related chat ensues. When are we booking our next holiday? Will they be old enough for us to leave them at home?

Fifth drink (maybe a few more… ): Fuck it. Let’s go OUT out! Go oooooooon, the taxi will drop us into town! The Granny’s can cope… we wore them out earlier! What more could they want? They’ll understand that we really NEED/DESERVE this. Que taxi turning up.

Last drink: Because now it’s ok to live by the seat of your pants and chance it driving off just for that last tasty morsel of food and sip of liquid heaven. This should have been the fifth drink (and some…) most likely, and you end up leaving the vicinity you’ve occupied for the last 2 and a half hours (yes this really is all it takes – we were home by 10.45pm) like a toddler being shoe-horned into their car seat. Your arse literally touches the seat of the taxi and you’ve got images of a feral child running around your house like it’s soft play, and really they may as well be running over your head… over and over again whilst sat on their push along car, just for added impact.

Taxi departures: Kisses, hugs, goodbyes and a look of deep sorrow and empathy is shared for the hell that will fall upon us all in the morning.

Next day: You decide maybe you won’t do that again for a little while…





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