leeaaaving on a jet plane

Saturday night: me and the kids watched Dr Who in front of a gas fire - very seventies. I was idly surfing for diamante shoes on Amazon at the same time, which is slightly less seventies - although, now I think of it, diamante shoes are actually quite seventies. I didn't buy any though. Decided that the Gurkha Fantasy Bollywood Ball will just have to make do with the silver strappy things I bought for a fiver in Peacock's sale about three years ago, because they're still going strong. The Gurkha Fantasy Bollywood Ball looks like it will also be quite a seventies affair. The poster promises a raffle and bingo - classy, no? (Wonder if they will have prawn cocktail for starters, chicken kiev for main, and black forest gateau for pud?) However I did satisfy my lust for retail therapy by buying toothbrushes for the children.

Hubby, meanwhile was en route to the Caribbean, oh yes, he's leeaaaviiing on a jet plane, don't know when he'll be back again (actually I do know, it's February 15th, which handily gets him out of having to do anything for Valentine's Day). Didn't have a chance to be upset about him leeaaaving on a jet plane this morning though, because as soon as he'd gone I had to whisk the kids of to playdate/birthday party. Twins had a party at K's house. K's parents are a German count and a Mongolian princess, respectively. Or so the rumour goes. I asked them, and K's mum said she would have been a princess if the communists hadn't abolished royalty some seventy-odd years ago. K's dad didn't fess up to being a count, either, although he did say his great-grandad was the founder of Deutsche Bank. I wracked my brains to think of some equally impressive ancestry in my family, but I think we were all pretty much impoverished scum. Apparently I do have great grandmother Redette's nose, though, and she was french, if that counts? I suspect she was impoverished scum french, though, so probably not...

K's parents (the count and the princess) have a weekend retreat up in the Everest region that used to belong to Sir Edmund Hillary. After a few glasses of wine K's dad said maybe we should all go up there and visit sometime. I murmured something about not wanting to fly into Lukla airstrip (also known as the cursed airport of death), and he said, oh no, you don't need to worry about that, we have our own airstrip for the house.

Naturally. Who wouldn't?