5.30am
I’m up. After numerous desperate attempts to get my newfound seven year old to go back to sleep, I’ve given up. From about 4.30am I have had to deal with a barrage of questions: “how many more minutes is it till I can open my presents?” “How many presents have I got?” “Can you believe that I’m actually SEVEN?” “You have to be nice to me all day – do you think you can manage?” “How many minutes now?” “Are you exited?” and so on and so on and so on.
Consequently I am feeling absolutely dreadful. I have a hangover from having to drink copious amounts of cheap white wine in a sports hall in order to get through what would otherwise have been a very tedious evening. End of year class drinks for my daughters class – Year Six. The final year of primary school. That’s it then, that particular group of people will never have to meet in the same room and drink crap wine together ever again.
My teenage son was serving drinks and helping to organise the disco. I tried to dance with him but he ran away. The disco was hopeless. Why is it that DJ’s assume we want to dance to Wham and Abba? I kept requesting The Fray and Mika and the Arctic Monkeys, which to their credit they did play, but it meant there were only three people on the dance floor. When they put on “Jitterbug” I left as a protest, fighting my way through the rest of the party desperate to get on down and shake their funky stuff on the dance floor.
