Tag Archives: party

Pretty. Vacant.

“Yeah, eBay, but who ever sends stuff back to eBay? It’s such a faff, you know? I mean it doesn’t matter really, it’s still the same dress I wanted just a bit, well, smaller.”

Her words bounced off his face like piss splashing against a urinal.
He nodded.

“I’ll just wear it. It’ll be fine. I’ll just skip breakfast this week.” She thought for a moment. You could always tell when she was thinking. The rest of her body appeared to shut down, as all resources were sent to the brain.

Her eyes glazed over.
He nodded.

“I’ll probably have to skip lunch as well, thinking about it,” she snorted. “How hilarious,” she said.

“Hilarious,” he replied.

The week came and went.
The party happened.
The dress was worn.

“Oh god, I can’t believe you weren’t there, you’d have loved it. Like, totally loved it. The dress I got from eBay – remember? Well, I wore that and I looked stunning, I mean really bloody stunning. I couldn’t eat anything at the party of course, but who eats at parties, right?”

He’d seen the upstairs kitchen was clear before he’d gone to fill his mug.
He’d neglected to lock the door.

He nodded.

“Right. So I was knocking back the vodka shots, yeah, and I dropped my bag. I tried to pick it up but I couldn’t move. Like, literally all I could do was move my arms like this,” she flailed her arms in awkward circles. He leaned to his right, feigning the sort of smile you reserve for the unwrapping of particularly shit Christmas socks.

“There was no way I could reach it. So this guy, Andy I think his name was,” her body shut down again, “or was it Aaron? Or Alan? Or Andrew? No. I’ve got it. It was Steve. This guy Steve, he comes over and picks up my bag. Hilarious.”

“Hilarious,” he agreed.

“and that’s when I realised I needed a wee,” she said, leaning forward so he could smell the two day old vodka and kebab on her skin masked only by the dowsing of Chanel number four and a half.

“I was busting. I ran to the loo – I say ran, it’s a bit difficult to run in a size 6 dress when you’re a size 12, not to mention the heels I had on! So I’m standing in the bathroom of this house right, and I swear the dress has got smaller, yeah? I dunno if it was where the sweat had shrunk it, or if it was because it had been stored in a cold wardrobe the week before, or what, but I just couldn’t get it up to pee.” She paused for breath.

He stopped washing his mug.

“And?” He asked.

“Well,” she began, “I said I was busting, yeah?”

He nodded.

“I just couldn’t hold it in,” she said. “I was stood in the bathroom with wee coming down my legs and all over the guy’s carpet, with a dress that was cutting off the circulation to my tits. There was nothing I could do. I mean, I tried to kick the puddle away a bit, but that just started messing up my shoes.”

“When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go,” he offered.

She snorted. “See,” she said, “I knew you’d get it. You’re so hilarious.”

“Hilarious,” he nodded.


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The invitation had said 3pm. Paul arrived at 2.
Three hours later, and with barely a spark, Kevin was sweating.

The plan was to light it, make sure the coals were white hot (he’d read that somewhere) and then begin cooking. By the time people arrived, he’d be half way through the cook.

This would, Kev thought, have two benefits:

1) People could eat straight away.
2) Ladies would admire his amazing BBQ skills.

By 6.30pm everyone, except Paul, had left.
Reluctantly, Kevin sidled over to him and silently slid a slice of Double Pepperoni from the warm box.



This piece was submitted as part of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. 1 photograph. 100 words. Often with over 100 people taking part.




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Just do it

I’m guilty.

Guilty of not doing stuff with my son because I think it will be a faff, or a struggle or he’ll be too tired or won’t behave. That I’ll be embarrassed having to tell him off, that there will be nappies. Stuff like that.

This weekend I could have said no to 2 things.

One of those things was a party kicking off at his bedtime following a day without a nap. Certainly not ideal. He was showing signs of sleepy-inspired-grumpiness before he’d even been placed into (the frankly brilliant) trousers, tiny shirt and little waistcoat but against our perceived better judgement we proceeded onwards to the party. I’m so glad we did…

The Party. Aged 2 and 2 months.

The room is so big, is it all mine? Can we stay?
The music is loud, is it always that way?

What’s this? This light? It’s bouncing around!
On the wall, on my shirt! and now on the ground!

Can I catch it? Will it hurt? and does it taste funny?
But wait, who’s that? It’s time to go running!

Around and around the tables I go
passed balloons, drinks and knees and that lady’s toes.

There’s no time to stop and no time to sit,
Oh look, there’s my dad! “Dad, dad, dad…


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