petite anglaise

I am wondering whether the way I saw in the New Year augurs well for 2005.

It all started well as Mr Frog and I, accompanied by my sister and her fiancé, had a civilised meal in a gorgeous Thai restaurant we had been itching to try for some time. The food was amazing, if a little fiercely spiced, and with each successive dish our lips and mouths burned a little hotter and we felt obliged to extinguish the flames with large quantities of wine. We drove along York’s scariest pub crawl street (Micklegate) on the way home in order to point and laugh at all the girlies with their mini skirts on tightless legs, strappy tops baring arms and shoulders, glad to be inside a heated car muffled up in jumpers and coats.

And then it all started to go wrong. Shortly before midnight after a couple of G&T’s, petite anglaise decided that New Year or no, it was time to call it a night and lie down, stomach churning with spicy food swimming in a vinegar coulis. I am not proud of my early departure, but at least I know when enough is enough. Mr Frog, singularly unimpressed and fired up on Chimay and assorted spirits – which I think you will agree do not generally sit well with wine, champagne and Thai food – dragged my father down to the village pub to join my siblings and watch the fireworks. And continue drinking. I half awoke when he slipped into bed and I gather my first words to him in 2005 were ‘WTF are you doing texting at this time of night?’ as I became dimly aware of a tappety tapping noise and saw the backlight of his mobile gleaming in the darkness.

Some time later I was roused again, this time by a hand touching my forehead. I made out a shadowy figure crossing the room. Then I heard a coughing noise I know only too well. Mr Frog did not make it to the bathroom.

And so it was that my first deed of 2005 was dealing with a soiled towel and bedclothes – which would not have been out of place in the film ‘Trainspotting’ – using only the bathroom sink and toilet. I couldn’t even get downstairs to the washing machine as I knew the burglar alarm would be switched on and couldn’t for the life of me remember the code. After leaving an embarrassed little note for my mum instructing her to touch the pile of festering bedlinen in the bath under no circumstances, I went back to bed and called Mr Frog every nasty name I could think of in a very angry whisper.

This morning on the metro I finally got around to switching on my mobile phone, which had gone down with a nasty case of flat battery during my stay in the UK as I had omitted to pack my charger. And found a text from Mr Frog written at 1 am on Saturday 1 January 2005 which read:

‘Je t’aime [insert secret pet name here] et je te souhaite une merveilleuse année 2005’

I’m feeling a little guilty now.