P is for Party

It is rare for me to go to a Party without my children but this weekend saw me do exactly that with my husband for our P Alphabet Date.

I have a neighbour who is similar to me in age and the similarity theme continues in the paths our lives have followed. Like me, she has grown up children from a previous marriage that would never have won any 'Perfect Match' prizes and has since met and married a man that restored her faith in happy ever afters. She has a daughter from that marriage who is just a little younger than my Addy. This weekend, she threw a party to celebrate the 5 year anniversary of meeting her Prince Charming.

The party was in the function room of a country pub. Daughter Ivy agreed to be our taxi for the night (payback time!!) and she straightened my hair for me for a bit of glamour. I left my Doc Martens and trainers at home, dusted off my ridiculously high heels and felt good to go. My husband rethought his scruffy T shirt and jeans combo when he saw that I had made the effort with my faithful Little Black Dress. He didn't look too shabby when he teamed a white dress shirt with the same jeans (that he claims are all he's got).

I didn't recognise many faces at the party but there was a wonderfully friendly, fun atmosphere. I felt a sharp pain in my heart missing my Addy as I watched the pink princess offspring of our hosts twirling on the dance floor with an inflatable guitar, blonde curls bouncing, but the freedom to enjoy myself without my 'mummy hat' on was liberating.

We danced to the 'so bad they're good' songs of the 80's and 90's, drank enough beer to ensure a mild hangover and generally had a fantastic night. The dance floor cabaret of guests letting their hair down perhaps a little too much kept us thoroughly entertained. I have to include my husband in their number with his rather embarrassing improvised Michael Jackson party piece complete with sequinned glove prop.

Ivy came to collect us before midnight but she knew some of the party guests who had been in her year at school so she stayed for a while for a drink (lemonade!) and a dance. The reprieve on our curfew did make me feel like a naughty teenager. It was great. It also meant that Ivy got to witness her stepfather's Michael Jackson routine which quite possibly will scar her for life!