Okay. Which one of you bitches got spoilt rotten yesterday? Fag Hag Mum certainly ain’t got anything to complain about.
Mother’s Day bouquets were handed over by Fag Hag Sister and I in manner of small children in Boden smock dresses kneeling before Queenie’s square-toed courts. Divine Elemis smellies were leapt upon by Fag Hag Mum in manner of Amy Winehouse receiving a small package at 4am somewhere near Camden tube station. And the Elvis in Blue Hawaii cocktails were in plentiful supply. In fact the only minor zit on the otherwise flawless day was the excruciating bit when Fag Hag told a lie to waitress.
‘What’ll you have?’ she had asked brightly. I had looked at Fag Hag Mum and Sister’s chilled glasses of fizz and decided to join those borderline alcoholics. ‘I’ll have what they’re having!’ I cried happily. The waitress narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you a mum? These are complimentary for mums’. A silence fell upon the table. Which I broke with possibly he biggest lie I have ever told. ‘Yep. I’m a mum. I am absolutely a mum.’ I replied.
The waitress looked at Fag Hag Mum – here with her two daughters. Then she looked at Fag Hag Sister – here with her husband and daughter. Then she looked at me – here with my iPhone and a pair of RayBans. Her eyes narrowed again. ‘Are you sure you’re a mum?’
The champagne was hardly Cristalle. But that wasn’t the point. This was war. And I wasn’t going down with this ship. ‘Yes, I’m sure I’m a mum’.
At this point Fag Hag Mum decided to help matters along in only the way she can.
‘Her child’s not here today. She’s at home,’ she explained. The waitress gave me the sort of look reserved for women who leave their children home alone on Mother’s Day before handing over a glass of champagne in horrified silence.
So the waitress in my local thinks I’m the new Rose West. But what the hell, at least I got my liquor.