Mr and Mrs Smith's domestic bliss

Sadly gone are the days when one used to run one's finger o'er the print on the invitation to check whether satisfactorily raised from the page before deigning to attend the party.  Some send a missive, some by e-mail  but Virginio just asked me if I'd be attending his birthday bash on Saturday when I saw him.  I said I would consider it but how to rsvp?  I think I have a telephone number somewhere so I can call and utter pathetically lame excuses as to why I won't be able to make it.  I don't want to come because you didn't send me a proper invitation sounds a little churlish and Mr Smith would rather die than go all the way to W11 for a gathering of gay men and fat women which seem to make up the majority of Virginio's friends (my fav people).  Anyway I think Mr Smith is planning to take me to the seaside.

The Best Boy has gone to Bournemouth sporting a skinhead haircut and a snotty attitude.  He is SO rude to us we are elated he has gone to annoy someone else.

Task of the day:  Put up Mr Smith's trousers - properly.  I had a bash but I've done it all wrong and now have to take them down and start again.  Perhaps he'd like shorts?

Mr Smith is in rather a good mood.  He has sold his wine for loads of dosh despite many of the labels having been munched off the bottles by beetles in his wine cellar.  The posh wine merchants didn't seem to mind at all.  This means he can afford next year's golf club sub and even pushed the boat out and bought us a curry for dinner which we accompanied with a bottle of Bollinger.  How gloriously decadent.  Sometimes I really like being married to Mr Smith even if I do still  have to alter his trousers.