Men in Tights

Now I'm not really a culture vulture (Opera, meh! I can take it or leave it) Symphony (paint dry, grass grow, you get the idea). But Ballet, oh how I love the ballet. It either comes from some deep seated desire to twirl around in a tutu (and those of you that have seen me in the flesh will know how utterly hysterical that idea is), or I have mania for looking at fellows very fit bodies in painted on tights. Last night my darling Aunt and I pottered off to see Giselle, and, mylordy, were the tights painted on. I have to say that never before in my life have I seen a pair of tights go so far up a bottom crack. It was like the grand canyon. Good grief, I spent half the ballet wondering how he was going to get them out again.

Giselle is a lovely ballet, but as these things go it really doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. In the second act everyone is dead (all of broken hearts) and so are wafting about being willies, yes that’s what they are called in the program, not ghosts, but willies. (I giggled, several times, actually am still giggling). Anyway, so where was I, ah yes, wafting about. So then, everyone decides its time they did a jig and they all start flinging themselves about like demented irish folk dancers, and then just as suddenly they remember they are willies and start wafting again. When I am a willie (tho am unlikely to die of a broken heart, more like a surfeit of peanut butter cookies – Jackie why oh why did you send me that recipe), I am looking forward to the jigging bits, am really not a wafter. All I have to say to the heartbroken lover is that IF you are stupid enough to be hanging about your dead girlfriend’s grave in a forest at midnight on a night with a full moon then there is going to be trouble. Why the surprise?

Now I have a fairly short attention span (lets just say nits and I are on the same level) so I tend to get distracted by my fellow patrons. I would just like to say to the overweight and elderly lady sitting next to me to
a) lose weight (then you might be able to fit in the chair and not spill out onto mine)
b) WHEN YOU GO TO THE BALLET YOU DO NOT, I REPEAT NOT SIT THERE LOUDLY UNWRAPPING YOUR BARLEY SUGERS AND THEN EVEN MORE LOUDLY CRUNCHING THEM
c) When it is time to leave, LEAVE, don’t just stand there discussing how the head ballerina was ‘lighter than air’. She wasn’t, by the way, she was landing on that stage like a ton of bricks. Waft, waft, thunk. Waft, waft, thunk.
Pass me the popcorn and the jaffas.

Sigh.

My Life

Here is a list of all the things I have done today...

Woke up.
Begged husband not to leave house, contemplated lying on floor howling with 2yr old when he did.
Fed 4 month old.
Shared breakfast with Miss 2, her third for the day after eating her own and her father's.
Realised it was raining and thought yay rain.
Realised that rain means that if Miss 2 goes outside she will get 1. cold, 2. wet, 3. cranky.
Realise day will be spent inside with unreasonable toddler.
Ring husband to tell him I hate him.
Shower, supervised by dog, Miss 2 and Miss 4 months.
Rescue Miss 4 months from Miss 2's attempts to smother.
Finish washing hair.
Realise all clothes in dirty clothes basket.
Put load washing on.
Watch with tired resignation as Miss 2 begins to trash house.
Resolve to use firm Supernanny discipline techniques and enlist Miss 2 to tidy up mess.
Fail, decide to ignore state of house.
Decide to find healthy biscuits to cook so as to distract Miss 2.
Cook healthy no fat biscuits, ignore amount of sugar.
Miss 2 covered in batter.
Kitchen covered in batter.
Cook biscuits.
Cook spaghetti bolognese for dinner .
Cook lamb casserole for Thursday after work.
Offer healthy biscuits to Miss 2.
Pick biscuits up off floor.
Decide its time for Baby Einstein - thank god for Baby Einstein.
Feed Miss 4 months.
Feed Miss 2 lunch.
Pick lunch up off floor.
Ring husband to tell him I still hate him.
Direct nice debt-collection man to next door.
Wipe milk vomit off shirt.
Decide its time everyone had a nap.
Sit brain-fried in front of computer deciding that current wip is a complete waste of time that Mills&Boon will never want.
Try to organise life via email, fail miserably.
Miss 2 wakes from nap, crankier than ever and only placated by the thought that Boobah is on telly.
Boobah not on telly.
Try to bribe with biscuit.
Pick biscuit up off floor (even the Dog didn't want it).
Ring husband again. Berate.
Walk around block with dog, and children, sing Old MacDonald.
Feed spaghetti bolognese to Miss 2.
Wonder why dog will eat spaghetti and bolognese but not peas.
Start counting minutes until hubby arrives home.
Feed Miss 4 months.
Bath everyone.
Congratulate husband on arriving home just as everyone goes to bed.
Look forward to evening of viewing Big Brother.
Remember tomorrow is wedding anniversary.
Blame husband for current state of life.