Blonde's Eye View: The grip of the veggies
Angela Clarke wonders what went wrong. And then gets the Sambucas in
I have turned into one of those people who talk about organic vegetables. I caught myself doing it at a wedding, for God's sake.
There was alcohol, and music, and dodgy dancing, and gossip, and lots of other mildly entertaining things I could have been doing.
But there I was, balancing someone else's baby on my knee and talking about low carb cauliflower couscous. Shoot me now.
I don't want to be organic broccoli lady.
She's from the same twisted family that spawned "new washing machine woman" and "interest rate mortgage lender guy". No-one wants to go to the pub with them.
If I'd wanted to prove my unutterable dullness I should have just kept the child I was holding, and posted endless photos of it on Facebook.
It's like I closed my eyes for a second and misplaced my life. I could have been talking about anything: Syria, Mitt Romney, the finer intricacies of Gangnam Style.
But no, I pulled from the greater depths of my cultural conscious: locally sourced, responsibly grown carrots. In a delivery box, no less.
Watch this space, next I'll be droning on about getting an allotment and growing the buggers.
I took immediate steps to rectify the situation - I thrust the baby back into its mother's arms. (She was not best pleased, as she'd been enjoying a large glass of Pinot Grigio at the time.)
I then informed the group all talk of Swiss chard would cease, and I was ordering a round of Sambucas.
Because, as we all know, nothing says young, carefree and totally unorganic than a raging hangover. Pass the beetroot juice, please.
Find Angela on twitter: @TheAngelaClarke