Charity ball…

Image by psilver via Flickr

None of this is true:
So my good friend Mr. PK found himself with 2 tickets to a charity ball. His own wife had gone to see her parents, so she wasn’t available. So he borrowed mine for the evening. This isn’t as sordid as it sounds. PK got to go full-on black tie and quaff with pals, my better half got to dress up in full battle regalia, strutt her stuff and quaff with pals. I am well beyond the half way mark of three score and ten and never been to a black tie, and don’t see why I should have to start now. Plus I got to stay at home run around on-line smiting Dwarves with my Golbin Shaman, I had full control over the tv remote and I got to play planet rock radio as loud as I liked. Not sure I can fit anymore sterotypical images in there, so shall probably stop now. There are pictures of the charity bash; PK looks grand in a black tie suit and my better half – well none looks better; both looked stunning. At 02:00 when I went to collect them, it’s probably fair to say they both looked stunned. An evening of hot air and in-numerable bottles of wine suddenly caught up with them whilst waiting on the hotel steps. D decided she needed the bathroom just as I arrived and hurtled back inside, and PK manged to look like he was stumbling around, whilst not actually moving his feet. He did manage to find a glass and a bottle of wine about his person and decided that the only best course of action to dissuade the fook up fairy who appeared to have serruptitiously messed with his world view, was to have another drink whilst we watied. We very nearly sent search parties for D but she did return after several minutes complaining about corset issues.

PK passed me the open bottle of wine and half-full wine glass whilst folding himself into the back of my mini, no mean feat for someone on his scale. And D, slumped into the front. PK was insistent that he didn’t want anymore wine and despite my reassurances that the didn’t actually have to drink it just because it was there, refused to hold the glass or the bottle. So D ended up nursing them and promptly fell asleep.

When we got to his house I managed to persuade him that he should take the bottle and glass of wine in with him, as D was barely awake and would drop them both within seconds of us setting off again, and I really didn’t want wine pouring all over the inside of my car. I also took the opportunity to return a book I’d borrowed – this was probably not one of my better decisions, some people may even consider this cruel but it did provide several minutes of entertainment for me. We watched him amble up to his front door and waited to make sure he got in ok. And then waited some more. And then some more. He seemed to be pondering some unfathomable issue, whilst his head meandered in some strange figure of eight ritualistic pre-door opening ritual. I wound the window down;
‘You ok, you got your keys?’
‘Yeah.’
**pause**
‘What you doing then?’
‘I can’t figure out which hand they are in.’
‘Why don’t you put something down?’
He then for no apparent reason took the opportunity to pour the glass of wine over himself. Cursing, he very carefully placed the wine glass in the glass recycling crate next to the front door, tucked the book under his left arm and tried to reach up to the key hole with the keys in his left hand. His right arm was waving the bottle of wine around like a belligerent air traffic controller. If I had could have seen his face I would no doubt have noticed his tongue was poking out and was waggling in the hope that it would some how aid the placement of his key or was in anyway connecteced by some invisible piece of string to his wrist. Balancing on tip toes, on the edge of a step, in the dark, with his elbow clamped to his side whilst trying to insert key in hole, clearly wasn’t working so he with uttmost care, put the wine bottle into the glass re-cycle box. Stood up, then bent down again, picked the bottle up poured its contents into the hedge, muttering that it was shit wine anway and then dropped the bottle back in the box. Further along the temporal line that is our narrative, he managed to finally get the key in the hole. He was in the first door. And he didn’t fall up the step either. Having the knack of it now, he got in the second door with a harumph of self satisfaction. I shouted to him;
‘Are you in?’
And with a cheery wave he retored, ‘yeah, now f*ck off you pervert’
Which he seemed to think was hilarious. How we larfed.