Iffy and squiffy

It is warm and wonderful where I am.Warm enough to be outside in shirtsleeves but not too warm to comfortably walk up the 1 in 4 hill to Isaac's house, pushing Cece in the stroller. 

Last night was a girls' night out. Wendy took me to a bar called Blondies which she said was a bit iffy (not her word) but it didn't seem as iffy as the bar they took me to last year which was a dark and dingy gay bar just over the hill from here. Whatever - we had margaritas. Two margaritas - that was enough to get me squiffy. (I'd be a really cheap date if I was in the market for dates.Thankfully, all that is behind me, unlike Sally Howe, heroine of the upcoming Plotting for Grown-ups.)
I digress. After the two margaritas, Wendy helped me outside and into a cab where a tiny TV screen was showing a man getting his legs waxed. A wild night out or what? 

Next stop was Wendy's favourite burger place - Umami Burger. Yum.

She took me home while the night was still young, because I am not.

This morning, Cece was up and shouting from 5 a.m. She is a happy baby, but very shouty. Lux woke up at 6 a.m. I did stagger upstairs to the living room to offer my babysitting services to the parent in charge, but thankfully was told they had it covered. I staggered back down to bed, and lurked there till I smelled coffee and saw the sun peeping through the blinds. I had a fab, fun time with Wendy and the margaritas, but the pace of life at Hepworth Towers in Derbyshire (even under three feet of snow) is probably more suited to me on a long term basis. The problem is, I did not discover margaritas until a few years ago, and I have a lot of lost time to make up. I will have to drink them a lot in my next life - the one where I am a rock chick and have my hair in an urchin cut, and it's bleached.