Are you ready to party? Because the “roaring 20’s” are on their way. World War 1 followed by the Spanish flu pandemic ensured that the 1920’s also got off to a bad start. But when the world got back on its feet, there was one hell of a celebration. A decade of bacchanalian debauchery ensued. Booze fuelled parties, flappers, orgiastic escapism, cabaret, jazz, the Charleston …. Well, I suspect that our impending post quarantine revelry will make the “roaring 20’s” look like a Mormon prayer meeting.
My only worry is, have I forgotten how to party? Invited to my first big bash since lockdown ended, I dug out my favourite stilettos in a flurry of anticipation…But after months in birkenstocks, my attempt to totter about on high heels resembled a toddler taking to the ice.
And what to wear? Working from home it hasn’t mattered that it looked as though I’d been dressed by Stevie Wonder. Determined to spruce up, I took my party frocks out of mothballs – only to discover they’ve mysteriously shrunk. Downing endless Quarantinis during Locktail Hour means there’s an elephant in the room… um, yours truly.
To avoid too-tight-dress stress, I then opted for my sexiest leather trousers… Sexy? Who am I kidding? The zipper stalled at half mast. Why would any man want to get into my pants, when even I can’t? A bloke who climbed aboard now would worry about burning his backside on the light bulb.
Clearly the only way I can ever have sex again is to have a fantasy…as in fantasise that I’m someone else, say, Margot Robbie or Beyonce.
Chastened by the fact that if I left my body to science, science would contest the will, I stripped naked in front of the mirror and gave myself a good talking to – I talked myself into a slice of cake to assuage my angst about lockdown weight gain.
Okay, the body’s a write off but what about my face? Having been foundation free for months I expected my unclogged complexion to be glowing. Dusting off my magnified mirror, at first I wondered why I couldn’t see my reflection, but after parting my eyebrows the visage staring back at me resembled the victim in a horror movie who’s just seen The Creature. To be fair, I do look pretty good for an 80 year old… Shame I’m only 61.
Girlfriends suggested I invest in a tub of emergency rehydration cream as expensive as caviar. But with every work gig postponed, all I can afford to use on my face is an old tube of heel balm – which clearly explains my tendency of late to put my foot in my mouth.
With an hour to go till party lift off, I slapped on some makeup. Lack of practise meant I ended up looking like a dog’s breakfast. At least my career prospects have increased; I can now be employed to sniff luggage at the airport.
As kick off approached, my nerves shrieked like the unoiled hinges of a screen door in the wind. Teetering nervously into the boisterous BBQ with blobbed make-up, wearing a dress baggy enough to double as a yacht spinnaker, anxious about the imminent asphyxiation associated with trying to breath while holding my stomach in, I then started to worry about my mental muscle. What would I talk about? Months of boxset bingeing has atrophied my brain. I’m now so forgetful that I only have a vague recollection of starting this article….
Well, it’s now dawn and I’ve just sashayed home from my first party in over three months. For anyone suffering from FOGO (Fear of Going Out) don’t fret. I’m happy to report that nobody was judgemental. Guests were far too busy pouring cocktails into our ears because our heads were jerking around like hooked fish to smile, laugh, banter and rejoice at the pure bliss of being with friends again – and vowing that we’ll never again take this simple joy for granted. So, party on, people!
Posted by Kathy Lette on Monday, July 6, 2020
What do women really want in bed? Breakfast. Oh, and a good book. If you’re looking for a funny, frivolous yet feisty new read, do slip between my covers. Satisfaction guaranteed.
Here’s a selection of scribblings in which I peel down to my emotional underwear – a psychological striptease that occasionally reveals all.
I think women are each other’s human Wonderbras – uplifting, supportive and making each other look bigger and better.
If he wants breakfast, tell him to sleep in the kitchen.
Men think monogamy is something you make dining tables out of.
Many marriages break up for religious reasons – he thinks he’s a god and she doesn’t.
Love prepares you for marriage the way needlepoint prepares you for round-the-world solo yachting.
Boys will be boys, and so will a load of middle-aged boys who should know better.
Ladies who lynch.
No wife ever shot a husband while he was vacuuming.
I think therefore I’m divorced.
All husbands think they’re Gods. If only their wives weren’t atheists.
Happy wife = happy life.
I couldn’t ask for a better husband… as much as I’d bloody well like to.
Statistically, 100% of divorces begin with marriage.
Marriage is nature’s way of promoting masturbation.
Marriage is a fun-packed, frivolous activity – only occasionally resulting in death.
It’ll be an amicable split. You’ll both get 50 % of the acrimony.
A new invention is required. The monogamous husband. Patent Pending.
How Do I Hate Thee? Let me Count the Ways.
My wedding vows didn’t say To Love, Hoover and Obey.
I’m Having my period so can therefore legally kill you.
You are going to enjoy this marriage, even if I have to divorce you to do so.
A happy marriage is like an orgasm – many of them are faked.
All this emphasis on women faking orgasms, but what about men faking foreplay?
Why do men like intelligent women? Because opposites attract.
Why don’t women tell jokes? Because we marry them.
What does a woman really want in bed? Breakfast.
For women, life is full of lies – I mean doctors maintain that wrinkles don’t hurt.
Legal aid cuts prove that the Tories believe a person is innocent until proven destitute.
Sexist men are so stupid it makes you want to take the ‘men’ out of Mensa.
If a man ever tells you that women fall at his feet – it’s only because he gets them drunk first.
A woman must always fight back. Never just lie back and think of Canberra.
The best cure for menopause is the toy boy diet. A case of having Your Beefcake and Eating It Too.
I don’t fake orgasms. I’m faking being six foot one and seven stone.
Trophy wives tarnish quickly and then get left on the shelf.
Lawyers work 24/7. The partners of lawyers suffer from a bad case of subpoena envy.
Most shrinks should book an appointment with themselves.
The question on the minds of most women is – why doesn’t chocolate go straight to your boobs?
Don’t fall for a man’s puppy dog look… Just get him wormed.
It’s been so long since a man has touched me, not even medical science will want my body.
My top tip for keeping your youth? Lock him in the pool house.
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