The bloggers of Big Up Your Blog were excited, it was award season, and the Annual Blogger’s Bash Event was approaching fast. Blogging nominations were due in for Best All Round; Funniest; Most Inspirational; Most Informative, Best Book Review, Best Service, Hidden Gem, Newbie and Best Pal so needless to say, anticipation hung in the air like the smell of fresh buns and coffee.
Who would get what? Who would nominate whom? Whom would wear what, and when would Plot actually put Niall’s English Language Thoughts into practice and get to work on her grammar? She was just considering who she might nominate, when there was a bang on the door; it was Fatty McCupcakes, who was looking a bit red around the gills.
“Have you been running?” asked Plot, horrified, in case she might be asked to join in. Plot left pot holes when she ran, so unless there was an impending catastrophe she tended to cruise at a more sedate pace.
“Gonna… Bash… dress… help” McCupcakes wheezed, bent double, radiating heat and Infra-red rays. Plot had never seen that particular shade of puce on someone’s face before and wondered if she should diplomatically put on a pair of polarised sunglasses to save her retinas.
“OK? You’re going to bash your dress. Why, what’s wrong with it?” asked Plot, perplexed. She tried to imagine Fatty McCupcakes in a dress; it was a big ask, McCupcakes rocked the jeans, plaid and a beanie look, but a dress; that was a bit of a head-melter.
Fatty McCupcakes shook her head and took a deep breath, “No, I’m going to the Annual Blogger’s Bash, I need to get in shape, and I need a dress that fits, can you help?”
Plot looked down and muffled a chuckle, she was wearing the allotment jumper that her mother had knit her almost thirty years ago; it was still going strong, but was never going to be on the front cover of Vogue. She could probably give a bit of advice on what to wear while digging in spuds, but an awards ceremony was a bit out of her league. Luckily, BUYB was full of weird and wonderful folk who knew about all sorts of stuff, so someone was bound to be able to help.
“Tell you what, LutheranLiar” is having a coffee morning, why don’t we head round there, The Beasley is bound to be there, and she knows all the best Oscar Outfits, then later on if you are up for it, we can give your aerial yoga class a bit of a bash, whaddia say?
“Coffee morning… will there be buns with sprinkles on them?”
“Deal.” At the promise of buns, McCupcakes got up like a scalded cat, and Plot tagged on behind on their way round to LutheranLiar’s.
On arrival, Alice stopped them at the gate. “Give me your knickers” she said, totally deadpan, “we have a houseguest this weekend, Sasha is here, and if I don’t give her your knickers she’ll maul you to death”.
Plot took a step backwards, and bumped into McCupcakes, Sasha Black was the creator of the Blogger’s Bash Awards. Now, Plot knew that organising an awards ceremony would be a bit stressful, but mauling someone to death because you didn’t give her your knickers seemed a bit extreme.
A low growl seemed to arise from the garage. Plot and McCupcakes looked at each other and started to back away slowly when Jessica caught their eye from inside the window. She was giving the ‘thumbs up’ sign apparently there was a daily etiquette for ‘social situations sans smalls.’ More to the point, now that they had been spotted there was no backing out, so after a bit of social awkwardness “that would never be spoken about again” – on pain of death, undies were duly handed over and they made their way in.
“Here, going commando is quite liberating” McCupcakes was saying to Alice on the way up the garden path. Plot was a lot less sure, she missed her kidney warmers. Back when she was in casts and learning to walk again, big knickers were definitely a lot easier to put on, after more than six weeks in plaster Plot didn’t once look back and was now a firm devotee in the way of the granny pant, this was rather unsettling.
She didn’t have long to dwell on this though, as soon as they went inside, it was clear that an argument was underway.
“Sacrilege! That’s what this is, a bloody disgrace!” came a voice from the living room, “everybody knows that a Cornish Cream Tea consists of a scone, jam, and cream, in that order, everybody except the National Trust who don’t know the difference between Devon and Cornwall. I’m telling you, wars have been fought over less!” Bryntin was on a roll, somehow the National Trust had managed to use a photo of a Devon cream tea in an advert for a Cornish property, and half of Cornwall was up in arms about it. “You should write a blog about that” said Gary to Bryntin, “So that they don’t get it wrong again”. Bryntin looked like he was about to explode. “A Point of Order – I did write about it!”
Plot tiptoed past the conversation keeping a low profile. She could hear snippets of conversations about dresses, and the Oscar ceremony, Hayley had everything in place to give McCupcakes a restyle, and Nelly Bean was working on an after dinner speech, having practiced by writing a letter to her Blog.
“Pssst! Are you going to this shin dig?” Plot looked round but couldn’t see anyone. “Look natural! Stop looking for me”
“Wha? Who am I looking for?” asked Plot, confused.
“It’s me” said the Queen of Scandinavian Noir and paranormal activity, “It’s Lise, are you going?”
“Dunno” said Plot, who still couldn’t see who she was talking to, “are you?”
But there was no answer, Lise had already gone, if she was ever really there at all.
Plot, being a confirmed introvert was just about peopled out at this stage, and started to make her way to the door, as she did, she passed a zen like group sitting crossed legged on the floor, with Ritu at the Centre composing poetry. The mystery voice asked “What are they doing?” Plot looked round, she still couldn’t see Lise anywhere, “Writing Haiku” Plot replied, playing Ritu’s theme music in her head again.
“Tanka” Ritu murmured, zen like.
“Your welcome” said Plot, because she had been brought up proper.
Plot caught McCupcake’s eye, “See you at yoga” she mouthed, and waved bye bye.
On the way out, Plot was aware of a presence behind her. Thinking it was Lise again, she turned round, only to be confronted by 200lbs of hair and slobber with a mouth full of knickers. “Nice doggie?” Plot whispered, “Is Sasha a lovely girl? Is oo? Oh yes oo is” Mentally making a note to never run an awards ceremony, because it obviously took an awful toll.
Plot wasn’t really one to talk, she hadn’t shaved her legs all winter either, and had a fair old pelt herself, but Sasha was positively beast like and shook the knickers in her mouth in the same way that a terrier would break a rat’s neck.
“Lovely” thought Plot, “I’m not stopping to retrieve those” and she leapt over the gate, proving that she could move the best when motivated properly.
Later, it was time to head to the aerial yoga class. Plot hadn’t ever been to this type of class before, but she had done a bit of ordinary yoga, so she at least knew her Asana’s from her Eagle. When she arrived, she saw McCupcake’s shoes sitting on the bench, and realised that her friend must already be inside. The only problem was that everyone was already in their hammock things, meditating.
Plot couldn’t exactly ask or poke each hammock, so she tiptoed through the class and tried to discern which might be a McCupcake shape. One of the hammocks spilled a scattering of crumbs every now and again. “Nnnoooooooooommmmmmmm” came the chant from within.
Plot looked inside the hammock and sure enough, with a look of pure contentment, Fatty McCupcakes was lying in ‘Reverse Camel’ with a load of leftover buns from the coffee morning.
Plot knew when she was beat. McCupcakes obviously had it all in hand, so Plot quietly, tiptoed back out of the class again, before being invited to get into a position that someone of Plot’s shape was never designed for.
As she puffed and blowed getting her shoes on, Plot contemplated the day, it had been fairly eventful.
“Yo! fancy a beer?” It was Cherie, who looked equally frazzled from learning German all day. “Thought you’d never ask” replied Plot, and the pair sauntered off to the pub for a well earned pint.