BY Helen Stockwell
THIS month my plan was to write a sparkling review of Russell Brand’s Messiah complex.
The event had already caused a bone of contention with my son, I was forsaking his school’s Christmas bazaar, he wasn’t a happy bunny. The tickets were an early present from my husband however, and no way was I not going.
I can see the almost formed review in my mind’s eye, it would have been extremely witty, and very, very, clever. The sort of written prose people would have stopped me on the street to marvel at its pure excellence, read aloud at christenings, wedding and funerals. By God, it could have been added to the school curriculum as an example shown to future aspiring writers. Who knows, it might even have won the noble peace prize.
Now it will never happen.
He only went and bleeding postponed his show due to ill health.
Reality slaps me in the face.
I’m going to have to wait till April to see Thurrock’s Marmite warrior. And it meant I missed out on my most selfish parent of the year award. We went to the bazaar, and pleasant it was (I got a photo of my babies with Father Christmas.) It weren’t the same though, I wanted to dress up and have an epic night out with my husband. Instead I sat at home drinking a bottle of Buck’s Fizz with a raffle ticket stuck to the side.
Chin chin, Merry Christmas folks