This bank holiday weekend saw the start of the annual LARPing events for Jason. For newer readers, my husband is one of those lunatics who dresses up in furry boots and bed sheets and staggers round fields pretending to be an orc/dwarf/unicorn etc. LARP stands for Live Action Role Play.
Contrary to popular belief when dressing up and the term ‘play’ is employed, this is not ‘sexy time’, unless you find four days in a field in Derbyshire embracing chemical toilets and the powers of the wet wipe, sexy. If you do, you are made of much sterner stuff than me.
He doesn’t expect me to stable him like those people who pretend to be ponies for fun. Nor does he expect me to pleasure him whilst he swirls around ominously casting spells. He himself is not really the sort to be excited at the thought of jumping out of a bush to indulge in woodland frolics. For all of this I am profoundly grateful. One of the reasons I married him was the fact that we are both invested in the idea that beds are the best place to ‘do sex’, especially when you’re a martyr to the cold weather, your back is playing up, you don’t want carpet burns and you fancy rolling into the duvet and going to sleep as soon as possible after it’s all over. We are basically The Ballad of Barry and Freda but with more biscuits.
I am absolutely shocking at any form of role play, even in a non sexy role. The last time I was required to pretend to be someone else I was on a first aid course and had to pretend to be constipated at work so that someone could assess whether I needed to go to hospital or not, and I alternated between getting the giggles and wanting to leave the room with shame at having to pretend to be someone else. I’m hardly going to be able to cope with leaping from the top of the wardrobe clad as a naughty nurse. Long term readers may remember the time I experimented with nipple tassels. It was like Strictly Come Dancing meets Benny Hill. And I went slightly cross eyed with the effort. It transpires that even when the spirit is willing, the flesh is weak. I’m just far too British for this sort of thing.
I knew all about the LARP stuff before we got together, so it wasn’t a shock. It’s not something secretive and shameful that he confessed when it was too late for me to back out. There’s no need to ring Jeremy Kyle. No. I went into the whole thing eyes wide open. Four times a year I accept that I will lose him to long weekends of thermal vests, frock coats and pop up tents. It is on the strict understanding that I never, ever have to go with him. As you know I believe camping is God’s way of telling you to buy a house, so that, coupled with my loathing of acting is my idea of a weekend of hell. As if bank holidays weren’t traumatic enough.
As far as the frock coats go. You may recall that it used to be fur and leather jerkins, but he got promoted to the head of the bank in recent times, so now it’s all top hats and ruthless transactions. I say the bank. It’s not like a bank, bank, where you get trapped behind an old lady with a tartan shopper who wants to change forty quid’s worth of tuppences into shillings. It’s a magical bank, obviously. And you’re more likely to be queueing behind an elf or a werewolf who wants to bank four potions and a totemic item of great magical worth. Given the rate at which high street banks are closing I feel that he could easily move into our local Nat West, which is due to shut any day now, and combine both magical and regular investments. It would certainly make day to day banking more fun. As long as when you’ve deposited your earnings/ring of power you can go back home to your nice, warm house with central heating and carpets, obviously.
So while he was offering mortgages to trolls, what did we do to amuse ourselves over the long weekend, here in boring, workaday Leicester?
Well, I continued in my bid to be a life long professional invalid by trapping a nerve in my neck, which necessitated napping on the sofa with ice packs festooned about my person. I also upped the menopausal flushes and have been promoted from just ear flushes to full facial flushes which have been waking me up when the neck pain hasn’t. These flushes last on average a couple of minutes at most, but are frequent and occur mostly in the night, which means I am now slightly bug eyed and highly over caffeinated.
Despite this, I gamely soldier on (see the being British thing above), and have cooked, cleaned and gardened. I wasn’t going to clean, but thanks to Tallulah throwing up all over her own feet at half past two on Sunday morning, and the cat, so excited that we were all up and rolling around in sick, joining in by depositing a huge, stinking pooh in the utility room, I felt the need.
It was, all things considered, quite reminiscent of when the children were all small and I spent every waking moment, of which there were too many, coated in sick, pooh and snot. Jason, when he got home from his LARP weekend, was waxing lyrical over some people who had brought along new babies to the event. He looked quite misty eyed and broody. I, on the other hand, looked wild eyed, filthy and horrified. It was the first time since the whole menopause malarkey I’ve been truly grateful for my lot as a barren womb.