The Accountant's New Torch

I am now of the age where I realise that no matter how artfully I apply my make-up and 'poof' my hair, I’m not going to be the next Miss Worthing without a chin implant and access to a good dentist, at the very least. Preparing for a night out post-Chickie is no fun. The pressure of squeezing into, then bulging out of any kind of evening wear fills me with dread and makes me look forward to reaching my 60’s when I can legally wear those floaty polyester smocks made popular by The Golden Girls.

Luckily, I don’t get to go out in the evenings too often as you can probably tell from the fact I have time to write a daily blog. Last night was an exception though and we went out for din dins with our friends.

After discarding a variety of outfits based on the fact that they committed one or more of the following violations: emphasised my big bottom; clung to two or more stomach rolls or showcased my saggy man boobs, I went with a dull but safe shirt/jumper combo and looked much the same as Accountant which may be why Claire the Chav commented that we looked like brother and sister. It was too disturbing an observation to dwell on.

Our kind and ever-diplomatic friend, M, quickly distracted us by telling us about her Christmas Party. M went on to explain how a director at her work had whispered something lecherous into her ear whilst grazing the top of her bottom with his fingertips. It was only later in the evening, after feeling oddly uncomfortable, she discovered he had deposited a mint imperial down the back of her knickers.

My mind was still wandering back to the brother/sister thing and made me regret swapping Meerkat and Claire on the tableplan, in the hope we’d all have a more interesting evening if Meerkat was positioned at the other end of the table.

Later on, Accountant grossed everyone out when he playfully grabbed all the jelly beans off the plate and then replaced them with the addition of hand sweat sauce. Meerkat still tucked in with gusto.

I’ve always been drawn to people with a touch of quirkiness to their character so only have myself to blame for Accountant who sits precariously on the fence that separates the eccentric from the abnormal.

As I lay in bed last night looking up at the ‘full moon’ on our ceiling, I wondered whether Accountant had finally fallen off that fence and landed on the other side. His father, an older version of Accountant, gave him a wind up torch for Christmas which is now one of his favourite things. He brings it to bed with him and it was responsible for our new indoor solar system. Accountant thought the torchlight made for a ‘romantic’ mood. I explained the only mood I was in was a bad one and to put the torch away. He later prodded me awake to demonstrate his new range of torch lit ceiling hand silhouettes which extended to a dog with ears and a dog without.

That was the point I booted him out into the spare room. Off he went, with his little wind up friend. I awoke four hours later to the raspy tones of Accountant’s Phlegm Requiem in D Minor. After waiting 20 minutes for the finale which never arrived, I reluctantly got out of my warm bed to explain sweetly to Accountant that, whilst I appreciated he was feeling a little snuffly, he should shut up immediatley. He relocated downstairs where he knew I would never be bothered to venture, and kept me awake for another 40 minutes with his snorting and spluttering.