Had a lovely girls night out last night, slightly changed by the arrival of two men 'husbands' if you like but do think we kept our men are bad rants at a limit due to their company. Very funny men, one does a drawing club, and other used to work for a famous magazine I've loved since university days for its top tips. Trouble is, then I just had to tell anyone about my secret top tip writing pastime and my delight when an odd twenty quid drops through my door for another one of my masterpieces of advice. (Why let rain trouble your washday, simply hang your wet clothes over your banisters and hey ho, an indoor line!) etc. etc.
Then I got ultra confused about who is a feminist, and who lives in Hastings, and who was accused of wearing fuck me shoes by Germaine Greer. I was insisting it was Kathryn Flett, even though others who had seen her/know her etc were sure it seemed unlikely. Woke up after a troubled night sleep with a disturbing dream in which Mat bought me a mouse as a present, without a cage, which weed everywhere until I fashioned a shoe box home and remembered it was not her. It was Suzanne Moore, who is of course, quite different. Ooops. Sorry ladies.
Must go out more often, although possibly not do talking as much. Also managed to tell pub landlord (again) how proud I was of myself for not mentioning that he was the Science Man from a show in Butlins spitting image, whilst telling him.