One night a month I stay over with my friend Pip in town, so that we can misbehave at our bookclub which is held in various homes in her neighborhood. I sleep-over more now than I probably did when I was a teenager.
But sometimes it’s nice to do something different, and being at Pip’s is really different:
Her house is light and airy and clean while my house has dust bunnies and insect control is based on a series of intricate webs that dangle from our 10 foot high ceilings.
She has two tall, sensible, quiet and amusing daughters, whilst I have three kids who personify chaos, confusion, and confrontation until I’ve had a drink in the evening.
Pip has a lovely quiet black labrador, who sits on his rug! While I have, well, Milo the crutch sniffing, muddy bearded Wolfhorse and Gemma Jack Russell – she who can’t be trusted around plates under 6 feet.
Pip’s husband torments me mercilessly, but I have Pip there to berate him so I don’t get hoarse in the throat. I’m a delicate flower, you know. At Pip’s house I am.
I sleep in fresh, clean, white sheets – in my own room – in a Queen sized bed by MYSELF and I get full to the brim with food from my generous host and the odd drink or two. Or….let’s just say two.
Needless to say I love it.
Strangely, I realise when I walk in the door of my own home again 24 hours later, that the noise and the grot and the bad mannered dogs – well, I’m pretty fond of them too.
But I’m not giving up Bookclub for anybody.