Weeks ago, Kirsty
and I decided that we needed to start planning our next date because the last time we were all together was April Fools Day and that was practically forever and a day ago, and with summer flying by the way it is, if we didn’t hurry up and do something, we’d miss it.
(if you want to read about that April’s Fools Day you can here and here
Normally when we start sending these date planning emails, it takes quite a few back and forths trying to coordinate a date that works for everyone because as you can imagine, with three couples who are always traveling for work, racing bikes over French mountains, or sipping Rosé on the beach with rugby players, plus seven children, and two dogs, there is always something going on. But this time all of the stars aligned and it only took one email, and one date; Saturday the 28th of July. Clearly it was fate.
And Saturday the 28th of July ended up being the perfect summer day at Kirsty’s house. It was a hot 33°C (96°F) but we all stayed cool… the kids splashing about in the pool and us sitting under the ceiling fan on the porch with our drinks and nibbles.
(One of the kids… OK, I’ll spill… Aidan’s Littlest… came over and reached his little wet, pool water hand into the adult’s bowl of potato chips. Being the mature adult that I am, I walked over to the kid table to take some chips out of their bowl, but their potato chips were all wet and soggy. It was really gross.)
Not wanting to be left out of all of the cooling off fun, Clementine joined les enfants in the pool for a quick dip (easy choice because there was no way we were sharing any of our Champagne with her).
Having already gotten rid of les enfants and the dog, but still knowing that the only way we were going to get any real talking done (and be able to drink the Puech-Haut Rosé that Aidan bought without having to share), we needed to ditch the husbands too. We convinced them that they would have much more fun splashing about than hanging out on the patio with us boring girls (total dullsville we are). They bought it.
And there we sat, blissfully
swilling sipping Rosé and quickly chattering away, trying to squeeze in as much as possible before one of the husbands or les enfants crept up on us needing something or other (they always need something).
But then nighttime rolled around and with hungry bellies shouting to be fed, everyone got out of the pool and into their dry clothes. And for reasons that are beyond my comprehension, instead of walking the twenty steps to the bathroom, Gregory decided to get into his dry clothes in the kitchen and of course Kirsty walked in and busted him (it being her kitchen and all).
No, that wasn’t awkward at all.
P.S. I promise you that if you invite us over, my husband will not get undressed in your kitchen – he’s had a stern talking to.
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