Last night my gorgeous (and embarrassingly young) niece held a cocktail party. We received a charity "old-person's-invite" and amongst much trying on of flouncy frocks, glueing on of false beauty aids and shoe deliberations, I arrived resplendent in feathers (if a little sticky) just as the first cocktail glugged into plastic Tesco champagne glasses, old tumblers and chipped mugs.
Crohn's has a silver lining. What I consider malnourished, society considers desirable, so knobbly giraffe legs and visible hip bones transform from "very bad thing" to "very good thing" in a sparkle of leg glitter and some high sheen 10 deniers. A flat chest simply needs a couple of silicone chicken fillets and the spirit of Victoria Beckham is invoked. Poky out collar bones and xylophone ribs become Audrey Hepburn chic with a carefully chosen teeny-weeny dress and cunningly draped feather boa.
I felt glamorous, happy and (say it very, very quietly) well.
Never before have the planets aligned to ensure such freedom!! Bowels quiet? Check. Nausea absent? Check. Pain gone? Check. Energy? (After hour long pre-party-nap) Check. Drinking potential? Medium to high. Pleasant young people? Check.
I will share the happy news, that I was, for the first time ever, amongst the hard core ordering kebabs at 3am. What's more, my malevolent bowel allowed me to actually eat it, rather than just pretend. I can also confirm that pineapple mojitos and raspberry martinis are very tasty. But then as well people, you probably know that already.
What's more, I even got chatted up by some of the handsome young boys, inflating my ego to levels that could have been unseemly. Dave watched with benevolent pride, all too aware of the pitiful mess they'd have been hitting on a few months ago.
We decided if I become a blogging superstar I shall go for the title of "Paloma Faith of Politics". It would be refreshing and not a little funny to see Paxman or Dimbleby confused by sick-person-who-looks-hot-in-feather-boa-female-talking-politics. There might be some short-circuiting of stuffy old men, which would be amusing.
I was "normal" for a whole night!!! Yayyyyyyyyy.
Paxman-confusing Paloma Faith style Suey surrounded by attentive young boys. No tube up her nose or anything.