The adventures of Miss Despina

Had a great night out on Friday, we went to see Julie Fowlis again at The Waterside in Sale. The gig started at 8 but I had been working all day, and came home with the massive urge to go to bed for half an hour… So we were a bit late. But we thought we’d be ok and just miss the warm-up act which, if it was anything like last time, would be no bad thing. Not so. Sadly there were no "hard times cotton mill girls, hard times cotton mill girls, hard times cotton mill girls and it’s hard times cotton mill girls" to sit through this time, it was just Julie and the band doing the gig. Shame to miss the first few songs, but so lovely to hear the group again. Really great music and such amazing people. Bought a CD called The Door of Saints by Duncan Chisholm, it is really beautiful, soothing music.

The audience however reminded me of shows I’ve done in the past, standing there performing and thinking "Is there anyone actually alive out there?" and at the end when the artists came out to sign CDs and say hi, everyone had buggered off! We went off to the Crescent in Salford, where we listened to decent music on the jukebox, drank real ale, and generally had a nice time. There’s something wonderfully surreal about saying "Can I have half a Black Pig and a pint of Tombstone?" I was looking hot in my new clobber, and reminded my other half of the time we went to town looking for some food and spontaneously ended up in a rather upmarket Portugese restaurant (Luso, on Bridge Street). On this occassion I was in jeans and a scruffy jumper, which is a rare look for me. And then he takes me to a "spit and sawdust" pub the night I’m wearing stilettoes and a sparkly pashmina.

I think it’s great that after nearly a year of being together, and three months of living together, we still go out on dates, we still make an effort, we flirt, we woo each other, and we’re still able to look at each other and go "Wow!" And I’ve realised, I simply have to be with the man who gets as excited about the same sorts of things as I do.

Me: Ooooh there’s an exhibition at the Manchester Museum on Classification! Organisation of information through the ages!
Him: Oh goody!

I was also thinking, really, why do so many girls go out at night looking so god-awful? With their horrible midriffs spilling out of their cheap boob-tubes, streaky fake tan on their legs, all finished off with horrendous make-up, and plastic high-heeled shoes they can’t even walk in? I love a short skirt, I love my heels, I love showing off what little cleavage I’ve been blessed with. But there are ways and ways…

Last night I declined an invite to a kareoke bar in Chinatown, in favour of a real ale pub. I think I’m getting old and sensible. I just wasn’t drunk enough to tell an entire bar that I would always love them, and to be honest I’m terrible at karaoke. Last time I did it was last year, the night Catherine and I had planned our holiday. We were so excited (and already a bit puddled) that we went into the town centre of where I was living, and in honour of our shared high school heritage, got up and sang the Spice Girls: "Who do you think you are? I bloody know who I am, I’m Vicky Pollard, so shut up!"
Not my classiest performance.

So now it’s rather a sunny day and I’m dying to go outside and enjoy it, but my poor love has given himself lots of work to and has a busy couple of weeks ahead before we go away, so I’m spending the day doing mostly profitable and virtuous things too. Like trying to sort out Prague - the stressssss - and locate any uni notes that have survived the move and the recycling bag. My life will never, ever be simple.