A Vintage Gent and a lot of Raspberry Gin

Tea and Gin house party for Rhona's big birthday. Rhona is the Rihanna of the north (and of the team at work) being both a hostess with the mostess that knows how to throw a party and packing a pretty classy singing voice (even when she's tipsy).

Lots of be-topping was required in preparation of attending this lashings of gin bash. Including much consternation from Dave on the right attire. He settled on a be-waxed beard (Santa's stocking filler finally came good) and a rash visit to a local antiques shop to purchase a Vintage gent's hat - originally hailing from no less than the local but long gone men's tailoring stalwart Isaac Benzies - and a cane be-topped with a superglued manic dogs head. If only canes be-topped with superglued manic dogs heads could talk, they would tell us some right shaggy dog takes, like who the hell would make such a thing.

Dave looked the part and was accompanied by a cross dresser......a cross between "Princess Margaret on the decline" be-topped with Princess Anne's fashion resistant hair. That would be me. I had hoped to wear the Amelia Earhart pant suit but with horror realised that I had reached the day that a size 14 would not fit. I entered a period of mourning momentarily, right there in the middle of Inverurie's M&Co. But I soon recovered/went into denial that one day it will fit (it bloody will you know) and bought it anyway. In the end I went with tea dress florals, pearls and a fake stole. Felt naked without my yes badge, sort of like going out without a pair of granny knickers on.

Talking of yes! Scandal before we parked up, police everywhere looking for the culprit that had splurged "Vote Yes" in six foot letters on a lovely white harled gable end wall. I looked shifty and was secretly glad I hadn't brought the yes mobile. Of course it wasn't me guvnor, I can't reach that far up anyway. Probably was Alistair Darling, a.k.a "Night Terror" the referendum super villain who can stir up mistrust with one raise of a darkened arched eyebrow.

But back to the party and after being gawped at buying gin and prosecco in Asda by the more conservative natives on route, we ventured forth into the well-to-do West End to a lovely party. I got my first taste of a decent tasty wasty gin, mother's ruin indeed. Edinburgh raspberry gin and prosecco mixed together is the best invention since chocolate buttons.

Being a vintage party, I got domesticated at one point and adorned with nappy sack gloves saved the beautifully dressed hostess the birthday horror of dealing with a cat poo faux pas. Once I'd overegged the laughs from that drama I moved onto over hogging the microphone with a new singing partner in crime and intermittently overstuffed myself with cake and booze.

Shame on me. Gin certainly diminishes inhibitions, I shall therefore be having it daily with breakfast sprinkled with wild abandon over my bran flakes.

So, after arriving unfashionably late to the Prosecco party two years ago (let's face it, it's the babysham of the moment but who cares, it goes down a treat), I've now discovered, thanks to Rhona, that Gin need not taste of flowers but can be raspberry luscious. And together, they taste greaaaaaaat and can help to start to mend broken hearts too.