This was the night of my sister’s flat party – zoo themed.
Earlier that afternoon I went to see how the decorations were coming along. My sister, Brooke, sneakily slipped into conversation how she had told everyone coming that I was the face painter of the night! I stared, the pressure building up before my eyes and a tiger suit hanging off their boiler. Now, I am not one to shy away when boasting about my A* art GCSE, but having never touched a person’s face with paint in my life, this seemed to surpass even my capable artistic abilities. Scolding Brooke, I went home and Googled animal face paint and Youtubed how-to’s for the rest of the afternoon.
I should have known that there would be alcohol.
This meaning that firstly there wouldn’t be a complaint if my face-painting was rubbish (that is, until, the next morning in the clear light of day when the Facebook photos would hit the reality of my unsuspecting victims). And secondly, that after drinking pretty much the whole Fat Frog punch bowl to myself I had the confidence of Picasso. “Give me my canvas!” I called. “Pass me my brush!” I laughed, tripping over my own gangly legs.
I looked down and saw that my sister had not prepared for my expertise. She had passed to me what I can only describe as wax. It was not face paint. (This soon dawned on my sister the next day, where she found her carpet stained in this disgusting mixture – and to this day no amount of Vanish has removed the stains.) She had bought a kid’s size, 3 coloured ‘facepainting’ set from Poundland. I guess that hour on Youtube was not needed. So for the rest of the night, for anyone who wasn’t dressed up I took a crayon to their face and drew on a nose and wobbly whiskers. Job done.
The rest of the night was full of drunken dancing, singing and dares. Find the peg! Don’t drink with your drinking hand! Guess the name of the leopard! And definitely, definitely, don’t get stuck with the humping gorilla.
