excused responsibilities

My Saturday night restaurant ordeal last weekend was surprisingly tolerable, once I abandoned all hope of enjoying myself and just accepted it as a voluntary social penance. Even the conversational cacophony - the inevitable result of squeezing too many noisy diners into a space no bigger than a living room, then removing all carpets and soft furnishings - couldn't drag me down.

An added advantage of wearing the full-strength anti-tinnitus earplugs was that conversation wasn't an option for me, and I was able to concentrate on munching the overpriced designer food (deep-fried stuffed zucchini flowers for starters) without choking. The others in our party were glad to take up my share of airtime for the broadcast of their own pet stories. By lip-reading, I was able to observe them recycling the same self-serving anecdotes to each person in turn. I wish I was as easily pleased. When I was upfront with Stu about how little I enjoy these events, he asked "well, what would you rather do with your Saturday night?" I didn't pick up that the question was probably rhetorical, so I told him I'd have a better time sitting alone in an empty room.

Tonight I am excused all social responsibilities, mainly because the partner is in another country again. I'll be letting myself go even more than usual, spending the evening in front of the telly and the PC, wearing nothing but the new undies I bought today. I must say, going up a size does give one extra room to luxuriate. I used to think that Robert Plant wore a banana down his trousers or else he was born with a big willie. Now I know his secret - you just buy your jocks a size too big, and your tackle expands to take up the extra space. They do say that nature abhors a vacuum. I keep having to admire my new profile in the mirror. Could life get any better than this?