As I was doing my sun salutes this morning while swaying along to Mika, the new preferred album in the household which has knocked Take That off their number one spot after a record three months, my husband was recovering from a night of partying with my best friend and some of her friends in Delhi.
Mika, by the way, is brilliant. Tracks 1,2 and 8 are guaranteed to put you in a dancingly good mood and the others aren’t shabby either. My sun salutes are much more lively now, even if I have been kept awake by children most of the night, as I was last night. I mean, I know he’s only three, but doesn’t he realise how RUDE it is to come barging into my room at 4am, shout at me about his light being switched off and then spend the rest of the night snoring next to me?
My husband went to a nightclub where apparently tout Delhi was gathered. He mingled with top models (all as tall as him and he’s over 6 foot 2), celebs and of course my friend Iona.
Iona and I used to go to nightclubs when we were 20. I have to admit that I hated them then, although I pretended to love them. I even hated them when I was 17 and did practically nothing else. Goodness only knows what I’d think of one now. I mean I love the dancing, but all that noise, smoke and queuing for the loo is just too tedious.
Another thing I don’t miss is the prats you meet at nightclubs. My husband told me he shared a taxi back with a rather handsome, surly Frenchman with more hair than me (which is tricky considering I have at least two other people’s heads of hair as well my own.)
He tried to talk to the hirsute one who was monosyllabic. Until he asked him what he was doing in Delhi.
“I model, and I write,” he said with a flick of his locks. Yeah, whatever, as Bea would say.
Meanwhile I have finally had a text from Heathcliff. It sounds like he will be in Devon when we are there. Now I just have to make sure Olivia and Bea don’t fall in love with his sons. I know Olivia is far too sensible, but I fear for my little Bea-Sting….
Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2007