Broadmoor nights

Walking past a newsagent the other day I saw a promotion for a publication, Cosmopolitan Brides. Curious what. Full circle and that. while I felt mild irritation with the turnabout for a magazine that once purported to be for the independent femme (or did it ? - compare, contrast and discuss, somewhere else), I'll reserve my  spleen and blimpian bluster for the following and possibly bottle the residual bile for my cunterie of copains.

During celebrations for a golden jubilee (or was it an end of financial year sale?)that i recently attended  I was called 'jealous', 'racist' and 'horrid'. C'mon plain, old 'Bel' is fine by me, i'm not fancy. Initially I was overcome, sorry, come over cranky, and thought allusions were being made to one's brief foray into the indiewindiepudden'n'pie popular culture when too young to make promises or just say no (oh how the eighties are back!),  but no, it was merely a slight on my character so that is A-OK, for the mistress gives as good as she gets, as unlike her preferred hair shade,  she is no shrinking violet.

Don't worry, things picked up, seven hours into the party an ambulance arrived, no fuzz, no swimming pools involved or smack for that matter, shame (oh actually he'd left earlier to prepare for some conference comparing kangaroos with wolves)  just good old Mr Booze and lashings of dysfunctional adults (scribe included) suffering from yet another big chill. Gosh it was a top night. (oops it would seem that bottle has been prematurely uncorked - oh don't you love the glug glug sound of bile being poured? ).

All of which confirms that, yes,  i can be horrid and have occasions of exceptional diction,  but NO I'm not a racialiste and, angels, when you're paranoid, insecure and hypersensitive  (to your own needs) you're never ever classed as  jealous you're a cockin' comic genius, don't ye know.  To think I thought you were all jealous of ME. Oh how we must laugh about this the next time we're in our cups and in between character assassinations and chastisements.

Curiously more and more of my nights out are becoming like Christmas Day circa 1983 with my menopausal mother,  great-aunt tanty du spaz-attack, Patrick White on the cusp of a feud with everyone (Huwo, is it me you're looking for?, actually I excel (is that how it is still spelt and does it mean what I think it means or is it a brand of fruit conserve or computer software - all the years i've spent with dysfunctional potheads is doing my head in) in all roles and it's cockin' exhaustin' for me and my audience! Why, I tip my hat to Alec Guinness; how did he do it - magic of fillum, I guess) and and yet still no-one of the calibre of Nanny Marr or Manoly. And, that, my dear, non sequitur squitter, is THE greatest sin of all.

In between these insouciant follies (opposed to those very heavy and deep ones),  I've just had the jolliest of times, basal cell carcinoma here and squamous cell carcinoma there, stitches galore, some  benders and bedridden weekends, rehab, and a spell in bed this week  with the influenza.. Just when I thought life could really not be much peachier,  I had to go chez medecin for my annual health check....