Last night the boy took me out to what is probably the poshest restaurant in town, and for no particular reason (although my grumble that we don't celebrate our anniversary because we don't have one, may have had a tiny bit to do with it).
It wasn't just posh because it was humungously expensive. It was also posh because the menu is exotic (pheasant, venison, quail and salmon for instance); the waiter puts the napkin on your lap for you; he actually waits for a pause in your conversation before asking what you want to eat (and if you're not ready yet, he will come back); and because there were expensive-looking jackets and stoles in the cloakroom.
I'd been told to dress up, so with my designer pregnancy jeans I wore the only posh top that I could still get into (and only just - my boobs threatened to spill out at one point and the boy was compelled to "adjust" the garment for me). Even the lipstick, sitting ever-ready in the drawer for the last two years, got a look in. (The boy wore a long striped shirt that makes him look like Brad Pitt in Ocean's Eleven).
Our waiter was a young Jude Law with nice manners and a polite smile. He smiled a whole lot more when the boy gave him a tip that would have made me choke on my spinach and oyster soup, if I was still eating it by then.
Any hopes that the boy may have had for after-dinner naughties would've been dashed though. After a big, late meal like that, I was home and snoring in minutes.