Getting our inner hooligan on

Big high jumpy ball catching manoeuvre . 

On Saturday we went to the Rugby.  On a bus.  From our local cafe Ck's bites, who did a sterling job of organising.

There was food, there was drink.  And more food, and quite a bit of drink.

There was a backstage tour guided by a team member who wasn't playing that night.  We got to see the Waratah's gym, their kitchen and their physio room.  The kitchen had lots of watermelon rinds left on the bench.  I felt at home immediately.

There was no smell of Dencorub in the physio room.  I thought that was strange.

Waratahs look very nice in suits.  They are very tall and strong.  We enjoyed this part of the night immensely.

Jeremy the tall, well suited Waratah.

We opened the fridge in the kitchen and found an enormous carton of eggs.  Who knew they made egg cartons this big?  Two dozen?

The Waratah's assistant coach came and gave us his take on the upcoming game.  He said the Waratahs needed to get through the Stormers defences.  Yup.

The game was good.  Bit of a nail-biter near the end.  I stood up at the right spots and waved my blue flag, while maintaining an almost unbroken conversation with my girlfriends.

We now know you can buy champagne at the football, if you go in the same queue as where you buy cans of mixed spirits.  It was much shorter than the beer queue.  Although if you are the type who only drinks French, you might want to be designated driver.

We ate blinis with smoked salmon at the beginning of the night, but by halfway through the second half, were hoovering buckets of hot chips.  Our inner hooligan was now out of control and when the Waratahs won, we stamped and waved our flags and screamed like banshees.

On the way home on the bus, for some reason I'll never know, I told the story of how Mike and I started going out.  A very garbled version. To about half the bus.  Whether they wanted to listen or not.

In my retelling of this touching tale, I left out the part where Mike's mate, on wondering which girl in the Myer credit card department he had his eye on, wondered aloud if it were the girl with the 'big tits', or the other one.

Nice.

It was the one with the big tits, you dickhead.

On Mother's Day morning, while my husband thought about the wisdom of drinking too much red wine, I joined a couple of girlfriends for an exercise session in the park.  One is a personal trainer, and she's whipping me into shape.  It was beautiful and I'm glad I did.

Mother's Day has dawned, and we have champagne credits.

She good.  She very good. 

Just in case, you can find her website and details here.