LIFE’S ROSIE
G&TS, Frazzles and group therapy? Our columnist heads off for a girls’ weekend
It’s G+TS and loads of giggles on a girls’ weekend
IT’S OUR BIANNUAL GIRLS' WEEKEND AND I’M BORDERLINE HYSTERICAL WITH EXCITEMENT
(think first sighting of Orlando Bloom’s naked paddleboard pics. Cubed). After way too long between gatherings, the idea of 48 hours of immersive group therapy (with accompanying relationship analysing and outfit critiquing) is verging on too much.
Viv arrives three and a half hours early. After a thorough reconnaissance of the sparse cupboards, she’s now googling grocery shops/off licenses within walking distance. The nearest is a Co-op 14.3 miles away, so she sends out maydays on all communication platforms – email/whatsapp/an
actual call – to alert us to the impending crisis. “No salty snacks or booze. Ocado man not due for four hours. 240 minutes too long.”
S is still at home orchestrating sleeping arrangements for her warring guinea pigs (the Noel* and Liam* of the rodent world, they cannot be in the same space unsupervised).
Meanwhile, I’m putting the finishing touches to the 12-page Word doc (familiar to all mothers) that will become Alpha Male’s manual. It details leotard options (not his) and a minuteby-minute breakdown of who needs to be where and when. It’s a planning masterpiece.
After endless distractions, I too am packing. It’s a lengthy procedure that will require an outfit for bracing country walks, 10k runs, wild nights out, pub lunches etc. There’s also essential oils and face masks, as the trip will double as a wellness break (optimism, people).
Two hours later, I’m near, but lost. (My phone is telling me I’ve arrived at my destination but I’m pretty sure that’s not a sodding turnip field.)
Finally, I arrive. V looks crestfallen that I have no merlot, but rallies on seeing my pack of Hula Hoops. Incoming text. It’s from Alpha Male.
There is a picture of a suitcase. Which looks like mine. In our hallway. “This yours? ”
No pyjamas, toothbrush, pants or EAR PLUGS, in case I share with a snorer.
We eat the Hula Hoops and use the fitness magazine Viv’s reading to light the wood burner. It will not be a wellness weekend.
The troops arrive with provisions from a service station (cans of
G&T and Frazzles). Snorting laughter and reminiscing ensues.
Finally, we see the headlights of an Ocado van. We pounce on the delivery man like hyenas on a wildebeest. By midnight, we have imbibed all our recommended units. For the month.
The following day we are ruined. We decide to go for a walk to find the farm shop. Which is closed.
We get back to the cottage, mainline Maltesers and downgrade the night’s plans from clubbing to pub. Everyone’s in bed by 11pm.
The next morning, calm descends. I’m feeling tired, but happy. Truly boosted by 48 hours of camaraderie. And then: incoming text.
“Mummy when are you back?!! Last night, we had a power cut but it’s ok, we lit all your smelly candles!” Noooooooooooooo.
* Not their real names. Join the conversation on Instagram @Lifesrosie or on Twitter @Rosiegreenbq
“BYMIDNIGHT, WE IMBIBED ALL OUR UNITS”