I can hear Adam on the phone:
Ah now it's . . .
"I've got the house to myself this weekend so . . ."
(then something about 'let's smash it' which I think is a good thing . .)
"I just told everyone to come around about 7 . . .It won't be a big one!"Yes, I'm going away for the weekend with four of my most fabulous friends. I shall report on events afterwards but the last foray involved The Great Ocean Road, copious amounts of red wine and champagne and four menopausal women hot flushing in the Kruger and giggling until The Teacher wet herself on several occasions. The one before, all five of us catching a lift with a bucks party up to the spa dressed in little more than towelling robes and frilly shower caps. The one before, a weekend in the Blue Mountains where I nearly died of bushwalking (damn that poo-in-a-hole hyperactive best friend of mine) and a nose that refused to stop dripping while I had a massage. This year three of us are a bit on the poor side so we start with drinks at the Vicar (of Wakefield) then end up with the pub crowd for dinner somewhere . . it's always a mystery tour so will be fun.
(yeah right! Everyone? Who's everyone?)
The Teacher's coming up from Melbourne, Struth Ruth, The Merry Widow, Thommo and I will pick her up at 8am on Saturday morning and begin an adventure with Brunch at Tamarama or Bondi and the cliff walk, maybe Paddington Markets which is good because tomorrow's payday and they're super cool except last time I went I was booked for a parking infringement. Then lots of catching up before repairing to Chez Dural (Thommo's palatial home, set on five manicured acres, complete with swimming pool, tennis court, plasma screen and far too many Sting DVD's and 'aubergine' pained feature walls) to have a 'who can cook the best course' gourmet dinner and then get totally shitfaced and behave like schoolgirls.
So for Friday and Saturday night my fabulously now self-employed Landscaping Horticulturalist will be able to play 'house', Guitar Hero 3 on 11 and behave badly with his mates.
The last time I left him alone there were attempts to make explosions using a variety of vinegars and pool acid/chlorine and upon my return a declaration that the acrid vinegar odour was due to a new affection for fish and chips. I took the smile off his face by making him scrub the blackened pool coping stones with a tub of Gumption and a toothbrush. He took some convincing that there was little volatile about Balsamic Vinegar but gave it a go anyway. There were copious amounts of Yaegerbombing and then there was the time of faux sex with another dreadlocked mate involving a tin foil hat and a tin foil penis. Another party trick is shoving pink marshmallows up your schnozz and seeing how far you can blow them across the room. There was also an incident with about 11 people packing into a car and driving up to the servo for late night nibblies (the driver was sober). All of which have not only been caught on video but pasted on Facebook!
Thank God there's a fire ban from October to April or there'd be some pallet burning in the back yard and the possibility of some unsuspecting 'sparkly' rabbit emerging from the holes beneath the pyre . . seriously that happened once on bonfire night with loads of little children watching the illegal fireworks . . .'cover your eyes children' squealed the yummy mummies . . someone was brave enough to thwack it with a brick and put it out of its misery.
I just know that when I get home on Sunday evening the place will be reasonably tidy but not quite up to standard The Sulo bins will be full of bottles despite being emptied last night, my cooktop will be greasy beyond belief, the pool balls racked and the video games put away. My dog will be exhausted (she loves a party) and bloated with left over snags and the whole place will bear the stench of breakfast which usually comprises El Porto Portuguese chook and the house will stink of garlic and doner kebab farts and require 3 hours of Dusk "Awakening" fragranced candles to clear the fog . . . *sigh*