The Fag Hag has been on the horns of a dilemma recently, which, let’s face it, is better than being on the horns of some of the rough trade that’s passed through the lilac boudoir. And it reared its head a few days ago when I was toying with the idea of having a little shindig to celebrate my birthday on Friday.
As I tossed the idea around with some old University pals a few weeks back one of them (let’s call him Julian because the mo-fo isn’t getting anonymity) smiled naughtily, ‘That’s a bit dangerous isn’t it? I mean everyone’s going to assume it’s the big one if you do that’. By which he meant a number containing the digits 4 and zero – don’t make me state them aloud. Well…
I ain’t 30 but I sure as hell ain’t 40 either and so the hypothetical celebration was suddenly cancelled quicker than a Kate Moss engagement. So I’ve learned my lesson – next year the party is being planned well in advance and you’ll all be sent invitations proclaiming, ‘You’re cordially invited to The Fag Hag’s No I’m Not Fucking 40 Yet celebration’.
And the Dress Code? Mutton as Lamb of course my darlings.