SugaBabes and Chickens.

When I am not being a Vintage  HouseKeeper I  am busy being a  teenybopper.

Which would explain why I found myself queuing up behind a hoard of little girls in pink furry bunny rabbit ears as we waited a lifetime to see The Sugababes on the Liverpool Philharmonic on Saturday night.

Now  I just don’t have  the energy  to defend my bad taste in music, but my lovely friend Kath  asked me if  I wanted to go and because I am the kind of girl who is open to invitation I said yes, mostly because I have something of a girly crush on Heidi, who is from my hometown and went to Marks school.

And so we went: Four of us. Young things, aged dramatically in the space of two hours by the fact that the average age of a Sugababes fan is seven (Don’t even get me started on who takes a four year old in a boob tube and full make up to a concert on a Saturday night: what’s left to enjoy when she is a teenager??) and we are well into our thirties, dyeing away strangely stubborn grey hairs, exhausted by toddlers and in my case at least, hard of hearing…

But it was fun. Although Kath and I found ourselves sitting out a song or two, we also sang into  imaginary hairbrushs, waved our arms about in a manner most unbecoming to women (Ok Kath I’m speaking for myself here, you skinny thing, you…) with wobbly bits and discussed how the fuzzy luminous tickling sticks the kids were waving, would make great feather dusters, should one feel the urge to dust in the dark…

Saturday night on the town was followed by Sunday morning freezing on the coldest hard ground car boot sale in the Northwest. A car boot sale, I am afraid, in name only, because what this was in actual fact was a a kind of meat market complete with fat red butchers bawling at the tops of their voices and stall’s full of  cheap nylon knickers. Not nice…

Then it was on to the a flower show at Victorian Botanical Gardens: a flower show held by the local Chrysanthenum Society and quite the funniest thing I have ever experienced.  In we went to a room full of old doddery ladies (no doubt the type with secateurs in their handbags)  all standing proudly next to rather poor examples of potted daffodils and hyacinths and on the back wall  a collection of the very worst flower arranging displays you have ever seen: so very bad that  the judge who had awarded the most monstrous of all the  monstrosities first prize had seen fit to add this note:-"A rather spectacular effort spoiled by the fact that the use of  glass and metal in a natural setting is an insult to all things horticultural!"

It was just about the biggest laugh Mark and I have had in years, which may or may not say something quite sad about our lives.

I don’t know: you think you know a person and then they turn out be the kind of sorry soul who talks about knitting at a teenybopper concert and laughs at old peoples creative efforts.