Me and the New Year's Eve Party

It is New Year's Eve.

Boyfriend and I are going to make the long journey south to a party at his brother's house (i.e. 5 miles away in Clapham).  I am tarted up as befits New Year- something lurid, shiny and probably off-the-shoulder, accessorised with big hair - I fear.  Boyfriend is wearing his usual jeans and t-shirt combo (now that can't be right can it?)

'Yuck!', I squeal as I open the front door.  There sitting brownly on the front steps is the most enormous dog poo - I presume (hope) it is canine.  The dark brown shininess of it is both fascinating and repellent.   We stare in disbelief - Boyfriend says that he would like to have seen the originator- in the same awed voice he  uses when discussing calculus (i.e. this is something close to miraculous).

I look more closely.  Now - let's get this clear straight away that neither of us have coprophilic tendencies - it is just extraordinarily large and gleams.  Boyfriend finds a stick and goes to poke it.
'Come on, that's enough, that's really gross!' I shriek in disgust.
He then picks it up and chases me up the road; in my panic it takes some time to realise, that fastidious-type that he is,  there is no way he'd pick up dog-doings
There nestling in his hands I see that it is plastic - a joke dog crap.

Not wanting to be parted from our new toy we decide to take it to his brother's party - being sure it will come in useful.

At the flat there is a queue to go into the bathroom; several people squeeze in together at one time.  They are not using the facilities or indulging in any dodgy group activities,they are admiring the decor - Boyfriend's brother has been revamping his flat.  We wait our turn to admire the embossed mock-Victorian wall tiles.  Once inside we decide the bathroom really needs a little something extra to add to the ambiance.

With reverence we place the plastic dog poo in the centre of the bath - it looks perfect.  We then sit on the stairs outside the bathroom and watch people go in to admire the tiling and then come out with rather green faces, we laugh like drains - it is turning out to be a great party.

 Boyfriend's brother eventually discovers our gift and is not frightfully amused - guessing it was us because of our sniggering.  We are told we are immature and not at all funny - this makes us laugh even more.  When his sense of humour returns he confiscates our offering to take down to his parents' house to put in their bath.

Me, the boyfriend and home-made wine

Boyfriend is a student without much money (partly because he spends it on hard-backed books and travelling to London so we can rendez-vous).  He intends to economise, rather than sacrifice all those Loebs, he decides to make his own booze.  His mother, coming from a famous family of brewers, makes a pretty good home-made beer so he feels he is on safe ground and starts to make wine.

I come down for the weekend and we set off to a party.  I suggest we pool our money to buy a bottle.  Looking very pleased with himself he says he has something better than a bottle and produces a demi-john of dark red liquid - as he has not got vampiric tendencies I presume it might be alcohol.  Yes, his new speciality - loganberry wine.  Loganberries chosen as they are the cheapest canned fruit available in the local Co-op and brought back to his room to have alcoholic magic wrought on them - sadly no pigeage is necessary - always fancied a bit of leaping around in a tank of grapes.  I am not convinced of the wisdom of his actions and,  it must be admitted,  somewhat ashamed to be seen with a bloke carrying a demi-john up the Turl.  When we arrive the party is in full swing, I hang back so as not to be associated with the flagon, it would not be good for my image - people will think I like folk music and country dancing next.

People go to the drinks table, eye up the home-made wine and ask who brought this - in a tone that says 'What completely sad git thought this was a good idea.'  I give Boyfriend a firm kick and hiss, 'Keep your mouth shut or else'.  He knows better than to disobey.

We watch as the bottles of beer go, then the dodgy vodka with a label in no language recognisable to man, woman or philologist, then the wine boxes are emptied.  We drink cheap cider and pomagne -  until finally the flagon sits alone and virtually untouched on the table.  Even in desperation no one wants to drink loganberry juice with a delicious yeasty-after taste; people warn each other off.   We leave - no reason to stay now the drink has gone.  Downstairs Boyfriend says, 'Won't be a minute' and races back upstairs.
He reappears with his beloved flagon hidden under his coat, ' We can drink this when we get back - waste not want not.'
Decide I don't like this Scrooge-like persona and tell him pretty damn quickly.  Home-made wine making stops fairly soon after.
More of  the Boyfriend at Me and philosophy  Me, boyfriend and how I finally crack maths

Nan and the fancy dress party

I am invited to a fancy dress party by one of the boys I met at Lucy's party.  Finding a suitable costume will be challenging; it is necessary to be cool, alluring, individual (but not too individual) and wear as few clothes as possible - while at the same time avoiding the gimlet gaze of Mum who might make me stay at home and do my homework.

 I enlist Nan's help; she understands that girls just wanna have fun , has wardrobes of interesting clothes left over from the 1950s and has gone out in some pretty shocking outfits in her time.  There are still problems to be overcome: I am 8 inches taller and 5 dress sizes smaller (viz Twiggy and Barbara Windsor - only from the neck down).  A red velvet cocktail dress takes my eye, but I (sadly) do no have the curves to fill it.  Nan (I feel) is not taking this sartorial conundrum as seriously as she should, for instance her repeated suggestion that I dress as an old lady with a head scarf, shopping bag and falling-down stockings. After much sighing and huffing on my part she pulls out a colourful floral dirndl skirt with a sticky-out petticoat,  a white embroidered peasant-style blouse and announces I would make a good gypsy.  No - I am not a swarthy, dark-haired flashing-eyed voluptuous Carmen-type, but skinny, mousy and freckled.   Although not at all convinced I give in because a) my lift has arrived (Uncle in his Ford Cortina) and b) I cannot resist the lure of the charming Piers - slightly punky, when off school premises (a good look) or traditional Sloane-wear (rugby shirt with turned-up collar) - when within the hallowed grounds (not quite so good).

So there I am  - the most anaemic romany princess in all of Oxfordshire wearing an off-the-shoulder top made for a woman with the frontage of Diana Dors (I'm getting worried about the recurrence of off-the-shoulder outfits in my fashion history), enormous hoop earrings (very bling - or tarty as we said in the olden days). Footwear  proved a problem - Nan has feet the size of Miss Piggy's and I only have my cowboy boots which she says won't do for the authentic gypsy vibe.  She suggests I go bare-footed and I (idiot that I am) agree.

Uncle drives me to the school.  Unfortunately the party is taking place in the cricket pavilion - to get there involves a lengthy walk over wet playing fields.  I make my great entrance with mud up to my ankles and hide in a corner while I survey the scene. I am a lone gypsy in a room full of girls wearing variations on the 'sexy' outfit: sexy school girls (think Britney) and sexy tights/leotard combos (think haven't finished getting dressed).  Remind self not to ask Nan's advice about anything to do with clothes ever again.

Needless to say it wasn't a great evening.  Piers obviously preferred the schoolgirl-look to the gypsy - perhaps he had premonitions of Big Fat Gypsy Wedding?  The evening ended with me trudging back to meet Uncle, who loyally said I looked nice and offered me a Murray Mint - I would like to say that this made it better, but it really didn't.

Nan and the party dress

Some background. At the time this story took place my outfit of choice consisted of a t-shirt worn under one of my dad's lumberjack-style work shirts (no, he wasn't a lumberjack- he just liked to dress as one).  Said shirts had to be smuggled out of the ironing pile and then smuggled back before he noticed;  he wasn't keen on me borrowing them as his work mates always commented on the great smell of Rive Gauche that seemed to surround him.  I digress.  The above was worn with the tightest jeans I could squeeze into (coat hangers being the tool of choice) and if they weren't tight enough I would take them in.  This was fine when cycling to school as I could free-wheel as it was down hill all the way.  Coming home was a bit of a problem; the bike was impossible and not being able to bend at the knee resulted in a strange stiff legged walk - but who hasn't suffered for art?

Great look (or so I thought), but not the sort of thing to wear to Lucy's party (names changed here to protect the innocent) where most of the other guests were girls from Oxford High and boys from St Edwards - it was like Bridehead Revisted, The Great Gatesby and First Form at Mallory Towers all rolled into one -  heady stuff for a girl from the local comprehensive.  I confided in Nan who said that I was not to worry and that she'd find me something to wear.  When she fell asleep in front of the TV I kept whispering 'Miss Selfridge, Miss Selfridge' into her ear - but Paul McKenna where were you when I needed you (possibly not born?)
The night of the party I get changed at Nan's house; excited to see 'the dress' which I have been assured by Nan would 'knock 'em dead' my mum thought was 'pretty' and 7 year old sister lisped was just what a princess would wear.  I had been warned.

Yes - they were all correct: knock 'em dead with laughter, pretty awful and yes, Diana might have worn it when feeling depressed about Camilla.  It was made of pale blue cheesecloth (younger readers may need to look this up - but if you can't imagine the best sort of thing to clean windows with - floppy and scratchy at the same time).  The skirt had at least 4 flounces; imagine a ra-ra skirt, but not as sophisticated and each flounce was decorated with a band of blue lace and blue ric-rac.  The top was a cross between Jane Russell's dress in 'The Outlaw', minus Howard Hughes' intervention and Sophia Loren's 2009 Oscar dress -without the good taste.  This was the first and last time I wore an off-the-shoulder dress.  We both realised it looked hideous, but Nan being a glass-half full woman suggested we try and make it less noticable; I could wear some bright red lipstick or back comb my hair so it balanced out the fullness of the skirt or as a last resort I could borrow one of Uncle's jumpers (khaki green, khaki brown - lovely with pale blue).

The jumper won and got me on the bus without being laughed at.  Fortunately the top deck was almost empty and I was able to change back into my t-shirt, lumberjack shirt and jeans combo which I made sure I took with me.

The party wasn't so bad after all - Southern Comfort, pogoing and lots of Blue Stratos (these were posh boys).  Although I didn't fit in with the girls - long dresses (Laura Ashley, Miss Selfridge) the boys were a different matter;  they were either wanna-be punks or had never met a girl from a state school before.