Chicago at The Empire rocked. Totally.
I’ve learnt a few important things from the experience too:
1) I am destined to have this:
lodged in my head for the foreseeable future and must learn to live a normal life whilst continually suppressing the urge to sing it whilst shaking my shimmy in almost nothing but a bowler hat and fitted dinner jacket. I don’t think the world is ready for that sight (as discussed with Auntie Lou this morning, I’ve established that I have a 5’10 tall skinny dancer inside me screaming to get out – I can usually shut her up with cake and chocolate though).
2) Jimmy Osmond still has a lot of fans. Most of those fans still think it’s 1970-something and they’re still 16 years old. They’re not. I’m surprised we didn’t have to call the paramedics for multiple heart-attacks, or at the very least a few broken hips.
3) You should always, always sneak your own sweeties into the theatre, because the cost of them from the confectionery stand in the foyer is nothing short of outrageous, AND eating them illicitly makes them taste 100 times better.
4) It’s a shame I don’t live in 1920s Chicago. Clearly if I did I’d just be able to shoot my husband when he’s starting to annoy me and as long as I had 5 grand and a love of the spotlight I’d be onto a winner. You know he had it coming, it was a murder, not a crime!
5) The aforementioned Eastenders actress who was in it was Emma Barton, who played Billy Mitchell’s wife, Honey. She’s also the daughter of Una Stubbs. I hadn’t realised this before but as soon as she came on stage I could see the resemblance. It was a real Aunt Sally flash back!! Scarily like her mother.
I’m trying to get a tonne of work done this morning – but the intranet at work is still on the fritz so the pile of 170 UCAS forms I have to input has only been diminished by about 10 this morning. This is not good. I need to get them on to the system. I have NO filing left to do. Arrrrghhhhhh. Damn this technology stuff!
Not having work to do leaves me time to ponder the myriad of things that I need to be doing at home and haven’t yet done. As well as all the crafty plans I have I also really, really need to have a blitz in my living room (well, in the rest of my house too, but mostly in my living room). It’s a pig sty. It ain’t pretty. I still don’t know how people manage to work and clean their house aswell (unless they all sneakily have cleaners). The trouble is. I hate housework. I hate it. With a passion. I’d rather do pretty much anything than do housework. Tooth extraction? Sign me right up. Giving birth. Yup, I’d take that. Being run over by a mack truck – well I might consider washing one or two dishes before that, but if it was that or laundry I’m truck fodder. I don’t know what happened with me. Clearly I skipped that gene (my Mother is a housework fiend. She loves it. Can’t get enough of the stuff. I’m beginning to think she’s addicted to bleach. Seriously).
It wouldn’t be too bad I suppose if I’d manage to marry someone who was a complete clean and tidy fanatic. That might have evened out my messiness into a state of comfortable living. Unfortunately Kendo is worse than me (well, in some areas anyway, in some ways I’m way worse than him). We’re messy, messy people. I really don’t want to be passing this onto the kids though so we need to start getting a grip and doing something about it. Either that or hope that the “cleaning gene” skips a generation?
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