Invitations

Have reached the age of invitations, flu jabs, mammograms, and when playing ‘poo sticks’ means a bowel test.  Am delighted to be invited, although they tend to lack champagne and never have enough balloons.  Remembering the party season when I was a teenager, there seemed to be an invitation every weekend.  Mostly Venture Scout discos.  Cold, starry nights.  Wearing jeans that hadn’t quite dried properly, your mum screaming after you about getting rheumatics.  Poking your eye with mascara wands, and hoping the relentless autumn winds wouldn’t make your eyes water and leave black rivers running down your cheeks.  God forbid the Friday night pimple.  Once, I thought it would be a good idea to dab red food colouring onto my fringe – I blame Toyah Wilcox.  Went to the pub to see a band, and it rained on the walk there.  You would be surprised at how much red dye comes out of your head from just a few drops of food colouring.  Drenched the whole roller towel in the ladies’ toilets.  The bouncer wanted to call an ambulance.  Missed the band as was in the loo despondently trying to part with that red sea of food colouring.  Suffice to say, I have never been cool.  It took quite a long time to realise, just stop trying to be cool.  Embrace your naffness, you’ll live a happier life.  What can I say, you want golden nuggets, read Tolstoy.

Had the flu jab on Friday morning.  Walking home in the rose-gold sunshine, the sea calm, the shorn fields golden.  Felt full of well-being.  Friday afternoon, went to see ‘The Incomer’ which redefines the meaning of embracing naffness. Heartwarming, weird and nuts in weirdly nuts ways that could only have been created in Scotland.  It’s also hysterically funny and therefore, very cool indeed. 

The Incomer