So, Bizarre as it may seem, 2016 is a year of self-improvement. Yes, even by the 20th of January.
I’m still a wine-swilling slut who treats the vacuum like a virus, but under all those dust bunnies and cobwebs there’s a posh bird trying to get out.
The knife-throwing is progressing – knifely. Grouping is getting better. But when I’m engaged in conversation about it I can feel my voice heading south, to posher counties. Counties where artisan bakers are as omnipresent as McDonalds and the only dangerous dogs are the designer ones wearing last season’s quilted coat.
Why? Hmm. I think ‘withering’ in crystal-cut posh can be as lethal as a cleanly thrown blade, and I have to stick to my values while sticking the knife in. Laugh, fine. Just don’t insist that it’s absolutely impossible that I could be serious.
We ladies of a certain age assassins club members are not thugs dearie. We are fabulously, joyously underestimated, and that suits me just fine. However I do believe a little RP might just put the icing on the cake for a cutting remark or two when people snigger – REPEATEDLY – with disbelief at my, admittedly, ridiculous new hobby.
Titter yea not. No one thought I was really taking up knife throwing huh? Imagine their incredulity when the ‘thunking’ from my new booth in the barn is accompanied by dulcet tones of one who is more Chelsea than Chester yelling ‘Get In You Beauty!’
So it’s back to some desk research to find a class nearby. I may not tell JF. I suspect his reaction will be to want to soundproof the knife throwing booth, thereby creating a multifunctional recreational space for his Mrs from just five sheets of polystyrene.
And he will do it. He’s not sure he’s extracted all of the comedy value out of his trips to builders’ merchants to have a chat about her in(knife)drawers.
Anyway, if nothing else, here’s a picture of that bloke who was Mr Darcy. Colin Firth. Wearing a wet nightie and carrying a riding crop. Excellent!