Turning Teenager Birthday Party.

Had been fretting about this party for weeks. Okay maybe not as ‘fretty’ as I was about my half century (ouch, that still smarts a bit) last year, but I was still getting myself in a bit of a tizz! The DJ was booked, and luckily paid for by eldest son. Good job as let’s face it DJ’s cost the earth these days. I was definitely in the wrong line when God handed out careers advice. He never told me that writing would never be as fruitful as spinning discs (although it’s actually clicking on tunes from a laptop these days- yeah go figure!!).

Party Snacks

Anyway the day before the big shindig, I set out to buy the ‘snacks.’ Had decided against dinner type food, as it was a ‘becoming a teenagers’ party, so thought tasty snacks scattered around the hall would be preferable. An hour later and a trolley heaving with all of Aldi’s finest, put a rather massive smile on my face. One because of the triumphant joy at ‘job done,’ and two because it was all for under £50- result!!! What I’d forgotten of course, is that our tiny terraced cottage has about as much storage space as a hamsters cheeks after a very large meal! I ended up piling it all in youngest son’s room, with the faint hope that he wouldn’t notice- yeah right! Luckily it wasn’t eldest son’s room, as he is inflicted with the midnight sleepeating syndrome. Imagine waking up to half a ton of empty packets of cheesy puffs, bacon rashers and popcorn- (salted & sweet), all washed down with 16 bottles of fizzy pop.

Getting Ready

So the snacks stayed safely out of sight, for most of us anyway, and the day loomed large. Me and birthday girl got our hair done in the morning, and then as her friends arrived the ‘getting ready’ party ensued. A loooooong while later we were ready. The party went down well, apart from a bit of ‘beef’ with a couple of the girls. I stepped in only to be flabbergasted at the ‘ballsy’ (that means bloody rude) attitude of main culprit. Resisting the urge to – well I’m not sure actually what I wanted to do (child protection and all that). I kept my cool, kind of sorted it, and muttered a lot under my half century old breath as I walked away. My feet hurt, my daughters feet hurt, actually everyone’s feet hurt- a good sign at a party!

Everyone enjoyed themselves, and how do I know this? Snapchat went wild afterwards, and the airwaves were alive with the party selfies. There was lots of use of the word ‘sick’ and oodles of gossip. Of course we ended up bringing home half of the snacks and drinks, so it’s hula hoops and orange pop for breakfast, lunch and dinner for a couple of weeks. Party bonus !!   Image by J. Ketelaars from Pixabay Image by isuru prabath from Pixabay