I waved the tickets under the noses of the assembled offspring feeling like Mother of The Year. 'I've got us tickets to Le Clique at the Roundhouse, how great is that?'
Stunned silence and foot shuffling ensued. It was like watching calves being rounded up for the abattoir.
'How great is that?' I repeated, eagerly.
Apparently, not that great.
'Ma, it's an erotic circus. I'm not going to an erotic circus with my mother.' said younger son.
'It's not erotic. It's Burlesque.'
'What does Burlesque mean?' asked the teenager.
'Erm, sort of risqué ...'
'What does riskay mean?'
'Erotic,' jumped in younger son.
'Not really.'
'Yes it does, one of my friends went with his wife and he said it was an erotic circus and that one woman does a striptease and pulls a hankie out of.. '
'Don't give it away!'
But it was too late. The teenager's eyes widened with revulsion and refused to go, as did younger son. 'What's wrong with the ruddy Nutcracker or a Carol Concert, like a normal mum?' He retorted. Eldest son was working, he told me with some relief, which left only the eldest and me, and three spare tickets.
First stop was new man. Total disinterest. He was visiting his brother in trendy Macclesfield, that Mecca of frivolity and jewel of whichever part of the North it happens to be in, without a mobile signal or email, and didn't seem keen to cut his three day visit short to frolic with naked women in Camden, or anywhere else in the Greater London vicinity. He's also been reading my book since Christmas and has only got to page 170 by now and so I think the words 'not' and 'bothered' can safely be married together without even the glue of a 'that'.
'Are you sure? I haven't seen you for more than a week and it should be fun - it's an erotic circus (oh to hell with it, call a spade a spade, Marion),' I wheedled.
'Nah, it's been a while since I've seen my brother...'
Alas, I think I have bigger problems than the size of my backside.
Nevertheless eventually I rounded up a few friends and packed into the trunk of Fran's Jag, off we went to the circus. However - erotic? Not really. In fact, except for the woman pulling the hankie out of an unusual place that I would never have thought of, even if I had lost the option of stuffing it up my sleeve having taken off my jacket and tossed it across a stage, it was all pretty tame, old fashioned stuff like acrobatics and juggling served up with innuendo. There was even a woman with hula hoops and another old guy doing tricks on roller skates - I mean it was hardly Dita von Teese. I've had more smut on my reading glasses.
It was terrific fun though, especially when Chocolate Gateau, an obese black man with a beard dressed in leopard skin spandex and feathers chose my friend Fran as his target and straddled him in mid-song, then proceeded to rub his face between his large prosthetic breasts (having first handed me his specs). He took it all in good spirits, though I hesitate to think how either of my sons would have reacted if a cross-dressing baritone had attempted a bit of bump and grind with them in public, not to mention new man. Ha, if he thinks I'm big! But at least I don't have facial hair baby.
