If my adventures in the world of thongs weren't bad enough the fact that I was attending a Chav Party meant that I also had to buy a scrunchie. A pink one. And a headband to match.
But there was nothing that scared me quite as much as the moment that I saw D in his outfit. Not only would I have wanted to cross the road from someone who found it socially acceptable to wear two pairs of socks tucked over their reebok trousers but the more worrying factor was the fact that D, well, looked straight.
"This is why everyone thinks there are no gay chavs - of course there are, you just can't tell under all the clothing"
If not happy then accepting of this point, we set about making me pregnant. As interesting a blog as it would make for not with the aid of a turkey baster I hasten to add ("Give it ten years"), but with a pashmina. Because I was not just going to be a chav, I was going to be a pregnant chav. If you haven't yet realised, I don't do these things by half.
When we arrived at L's I suspect that D and I had settled rather too much into our family routine, something that was only made worse by the discovery of Chav giftbags containing chocolate cigarettes and Lamvino in plastic bottles. I was, though, passibly happy that I only scored 10% on the Chav Test (and I argued that liking Christopher Bailey and Burberry isn't necessary a Chav thing. That I know who Christopher Bailey is probably points to that alone).
After a balanced meal of mini chocolates, pizza and chips (without cheese for me because it's skanky) we decided that the chav music could be switched off as it was generally just traumatising everyone and instead it was on with Steps Gold.
"Chavs don't listen to Steps"
"Of course they do - they just listen to it in secret"
And suddenly me and my bump were demonstrating why I know more Steps dances than is probably morally right for one person. Because I may not be a chav but I am a bit of a geek.