And this weekend, at some point, I am getting one. It’s not that I don’t love staying in every single night. Cough. And it’s not that I don’t live for the Witching Hour (6-10pm pretty much every night). Ahem. And I don’t harbour any bitterness whatsoever for the fact that my husband gets to go out whenever he likes because he doesn’t have the equipment to feed our baby the way nature intended. But you know, something’s got to give. So one night this weekend, in the interests of equality and all that, the reins are well and truly being handed to him.
Insert massive cheer here.
The last time I donned my high heels and went out was last September, for my sister’s birthday. I was pregnant then so only had one very cheeky drink and was the designated driver. Husband and I were home and tucked up in bed by 11pm. Oh, the rebellion. (hey, it’s tiring being pregnant, okay?!)
It’s high time that was rectified, and this weekend my bestie is here to visit. I haven’t seen her since the second week of the x-factor live shows (I know that because we discussed how much we hated half the acts whilst stuffing our faces with Dominoes Pizza). Clearly, we have much to catch up on.
So, Medela bottles have been purchased, milk has been expressed, skinny jeans have been washed and my trusty black suede high heels have been dug out and dusted off, and this weekend I fully intend to neck a few cocktails and have a little boogie.
Watch out, Southampton.