Last night it was the class Christmas party. Not the cupcake and balloons variety, the grown-up one.
It started well, lots of polite chat and pleasant comments about sparkly dresses, gel nails etc. Then I met my old frenemy. Prosecco. It was the free drink on arrival, someone had ordered 5 bottles and there were only 4 of us drinking it.
Fast-forward 2 hours of idle gossip, cheese fondue, plenty of bratwurst and the stories began. For once it was not me. It was the class rep. She was on a roll. An outrageously rude roll. It was outstanding. The words ‘noo-noo’ and ‘flaps’ were thrown around. I found my new favourite saying “shut the front door” (replacing its ruder version, meaning ‘I don’t believe it’!). I was crying with laughter whilst trying not to pee myself. My mental insta moment of the night was looking down the line of the stunned but amused faces of the class mums.
Where do we go from here? Things have been said that cannot be unsaid. Mental images that will not be erased. School gates on Monday should be fun.
Then it gets worse.
That crucial decision moment. My free lift home was leaving, the party was wrapping up. The class rep invites us and a select few other couples back to her house “for one hour”. And that is when the wheels come off. Every time.
There was a lot of mum dancing. Jumping on chairs, tables, throwing shapes. Performing to no-one. It was awesome. Just for 10minutes you know for certain that you are a bloody rock star and everyone loves you. Everyone. Except the men, watching from the other room. Their faces tell us we are ridiculous. They are wrong. We are as stylish, glamorous and desirable as the day they met us. We are irresistible.