Enjoyed a scandalously large and boozy pre-Christmas lunch with some friends of my parents at a very swanky apartment in central Nice, and, semi-miraculously, I managed to restrict myself to just the two faux-pas, as follows:
1) We got onto the cheery, Christmassy subject of old age / euthanasia; “Yeah, three score years and ten”, I rejoindered - “that should be enough for anyone.” Our host pointed out that he was 74. “Erm… I meant four score years and ten, obviously” was my subsequent attempt to dig myself out of a Krakatoa-sized crater with a child’s plastic trowel.
2) The subject of bathrooms came up; specifically wet rooms / walk-in showers. With my mouth once again bravely leading where my brain was too slow to tread, I commented that I thought wet rooms were “quite fashionable a few years ago, but a bit chavvy now.” Of course, I hadn’t yet seen our hosts’ bathroom; had I taken the trouble to relieve myself (both bladder-wise and of my ignorance), I’d have seen that they’d had a walk-in shower installed earlier in the year at considerable expense. They graciously tried to deflect my idiocy by saying “oh, but we’re intending to put in a shower curtain”, but it wasn’t enough to stop me spending the rest of the afternoon with my head under a cushion on the sofa repeatedly moaning “Oh GOD, NO!”
Still, they say that Christmas is a time for giving - I suppose that must extend to offence…
Merry Eczemas too all regulars, occasionals and, heck darn it, anyone else!