Prosthetic appendages. a moustache and a trip to Asda

The husband went to a fancy dress party on Friday night. He went as a flasher. Luckily he didn’t have to use his own ‘props’ but a costume borrowed from a neighbour.

This is what it looked like but this is not, I repeat NOT, my husband.

Just for the record the pubic hair on the borrowed outfit looked more, well … afro than the ‘John Travolta’s hair implants’ style pubic hair on the picture.

We were not privy to his final look as we were on the way back from visiting Auntie K. I feel this was a HUGE blessing as I’m not sure I could have fielded the 4 year olds inevitable questions about her father’s new prosthetic appendage.

All was well until 3.30am when I was rudely awoken by my husband standing over me saying “It’s OK, it’s me, this is not a dream, please unzip me, I’m stuck”. Don’t be fooled into thinking I’m about to share a romantic interlude, the outfit zipped up the back.

Saturday morning arrived and husband was, not surprisingly, suffering the after effects of a night of flashing, too much alcohol and a vindaloo. The bedroom had the distinctive aroma of an alcohol soaked jalapeno.

I took the children to Chavsda, my endearing name for our nearest Asda. We needed provisions for a dinner party and I had left it too late for any online satisfaction. The clientele at our nearest Asda is eclectic to say the least. I avoid this particular store at all costs unless there is an emergency.

There is a window each day when the local alcoholics descend to purchase a Smart Price bottle of cider. Due to intoxication they stagger from aisle to aisle belching, arguing with themselves, scratching their arses and generally smelling. Unfortunately our arrival coincided with their arrival. This is reason #241 why shopping should always be done online.

We managed to get our shopping done without much incident and as we were about to leave the 4 year old decided she needed a wee.

We went to the toilets where there was a queue.

“What’s that?” the 4 year old exclaimed pointing wildly.

I didn’t need to look to know it wouldn’t be good, but look I did.

As I turned the other four women in the queue followed my gaze and the 4 year olds finger.

I was initially relieved that she wasn’t pointing at the lady behind me who had a moustache to rival Magnum PI.

The woman in front of me nearly choked in amusement and everyone looked back at me, waiting for my response.

Because the 4 year old is learning to read phonetically at school she began to spell out ‘r ... i ... b ... b ... e ... d’.

I was desperately hoping a cubicle would come free so I could thrust my daughter into it and away from the condom machine looming behind us.

Before she started on the word condom I told her that the machine sells packs of tissues. This explanation was accepted much to the sniggering of my fellow toilet dwellers.

I can’t help thinking that this will come back and bite me on the arse at some point in the future.

For the last few years my biggest worry on leaving the house has been whether I have packed sufficient provisions into an already overflowing nappy bag.

Now that worry has been replaced with needing to know every possible distraction technique and lie to get out of every awkward public situation.

This requires me to be alert at all times, which is ... difficult.

When did leaving the house become even more of a challenge than it was before?