Tag Archives: dinner

Don’t tell people your dreams, no-one cares

I had an unsettling and unpleasant dream last night, but seeing as the only thing more boring than people talking about their dreams is people talking about their food allergies, I won’t mention it again.

Except to say that I know exactly why I’m having these anxiety-producing dreams. It’s my little sister’s fault. We’re moving in together this weekend (it was meant to be Wednesday, but she forgot to hire a van), and she has given me a single job. She is in charge of the move itself, kitchen appliances, setting up the shared bank account, finding our 3rd flatmate and so on, but I am in charge of the important things. I am choosing our internet provider.

‘This will be easy,’ I thought to myself smugly when she told me. ‘I’m really good at the internet.’ I popped out to dinner with some friends. (Brasserie Zedel- it’s very good, you should go. Though the portions are fine, so there’s no need to eat 2 bread baskets, as I did, and have to be wheeled home). ‘Now,’ I said importantly. ‘We need to discuss internet providers.’ My friends looked at me, thrilled. (Sometimes I find it difficult to interpret other people’s facial expressions. It’s like a much less severe case of ‘The Man who mistook his Wife for a Hat’. But still socially awkward).

‘Who do you use?’ My friends mumbled something about not knowing/ caring.

A lesser person would have dropped the subject, and allowed their friends to enjoy their meal. ‘Look,’ I said sternly. ‘This is really important. I am basically in charge of making sure this entire move doesn’t fall apart. I need you to really think about your internet service provider, and if you would recommend them. If you could also consider upload and download speeds, as well as cost-per-month and potential ‘downtime’, that would be much appreciated.’

From the look on my friends’ faces (even a broken clock tells the right time twice a day), I had inadvertently stumbled across the other thing more boring than talking about dreams.

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Showing my Mother that I’m a grown-up

I have invited my Mother to an event. ‘I would like to invite you to this event,’ I emailed her last month. ‘Let me know if you’re free- I think the tickets will sell out pretty fast, so I’ve already got our two.’ I sat back smugly and waited for the glory that was sure to ensue. See, the event is this:

http://www.bl.uk/whatson/events/event130829.html, and I’m pretty sure now that I’ve invited my Mother to it I have secured my place as the favourite. ‘This will be such a nice, bonding thing for the two of us to do,’ I thought as I searched my floor for some clean socks. ‘And now that I’ve generously paid for the tickets, I think Mum will finally see me as a proper grown-up. And possibly take me out to dinner.’

My Mother replied. ‘Darling, I would love to come. Can you get another ticket please? I would like to bring my gentleman caller.’ I robustly ignored this email, and called my little sister. ‘I do not want her gentleman caller to come,’ I whined down the phone in an exceptionally grown-up fashion. ‘This was meant to be a fun thing we did just the two of us.’ My little sister encouraged me to talk to our Mother. I took a more sensible approach, and ignored her.

The event is next week, and this morning my Mother sent me another email. It was titled, ‘the 25th May’, and read as follows:


1. Was this a real invitation?

2. If yes can ****** come? (she obviously didn’t censor his name, but I am. He doesn’t deserve any more attention)

3. What time does it start and end?

4. Will you require dinner afterwards?

Let me know



It seems my excellent plan to ignore this problem has not worked, and I need to take a different approach. So, as a mature and reasonable grown-up, I have written this blogpost. I think you’ll all agree that this was the most adult thing to do.

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