Mummy’s got a hangover

We ran away last night. While our kids enjoyed the time capsule that is Cubs and Brownies – where growing cress and playing tag, and not twerking or trolling, is very much the ‘in thing’- we shot into town for a private view of an art auction. Free champagne, cocktails, steak sandwiches and mini fish and chips. The art was quite nice too. The fashionistas were out in force – not eating, sipping lamely on the one glass of fizz, looking studiously bored – while me and R raced around trying to get as much booze into us we could in the hour before we had to race back and pick them up from our saviour Caroline, who collected them for us. Demob happy, we were like gate crashers at an expensive wedding. We pocketed shot glasses, and this morning I discovered a bottle of Vodka in my handbag. I don’t remember much of the tube journey home – apart from a loud discussion about whether or not R was an arsehole for telling me it was ‘just my opinion’ that an elderly lady in our carriage was very stylish. This morning I woke at 6am – that’s the curse of leaving it late to have kids – just when they start to sleep in you start waking at dawn with all the other Nannas – and felt dog rough. The cat was nagging for food so I had to spoon cat meat into his dish while trying not to heave and wondering if the triplets are too young to walk to school themselves. Stinking of vodka at the school gates wearing yesterday’s mascara and last week’s socks.
‘Bye darling! Have a lovely day! Mummy’s going home to dry retch over a slice of toast and a cup of bitter self-recrimination’


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