It seems like only yesterday that Maxie G and I were holed up in the kitchen of her basement flat in Chelsea, drinking champagne and eating amazing roasted veggies, before Vienna or France or Dutch men or babies came along. That night, Maxie revealed to me that her perfect marriage that I’d been referencing as such for years, was far from perfect, and I momentarily lost my faith in true love in the West End.
(I’ve since regained that faith and lost it again approximately 27 times. And the year’s not done yet)
I was embarking upon the year of promiscuity, of Ensemble Bingo and heart-hardening no-strings-attached fun. Maxie was back in London after Panto, auditioning, failing to get pregnant, and dreaming of running away.
THEN, she went to Vienna, and suddenly everything changed. She met Tram Man, and Braveheart, and had a crazy European sexfest for 3 months. Coming back to London was understandably disappointing, and pretty soon she ran away to France for a minor mid-life crisis and a season of apple picking.
Why am I reminding you of all this? Well, because Maxie came to Sunday Night Dinner last night, all pregnant and glowing and fabulous, and as we sat down to a veritable feast with Blondie, Irish, Nicole and Twinkle, the subject of blogging came up (as it so often does).
“I haven’t posted anything for ages,” Maxie admitted shamefully. “I mean, I used to write about sordid shagathons and my failing marriage, and that was interesting. What am I going to say now? Woke up this morning, snuggled with my hot young Dutch lover and father of my unborn child, did some light DIY on my dream house in the South of France and generally grinned like a loon because my life is so perfect? Even my ex-husband is okay that I am having a baby with another man! No one wants to read that.”
After much deliberation we came to the conclusion that Maxie has finally managed to achieve what Disney has dangled tantalizingly in front of us for decades.
She’s gone and got herself a happy ending.
I am jealous as hell.