Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

I try to squeeze in a syllable.

      ‘I’ve been meaning to call, but the kids are hanging out of me non-stop. Driving me nuts. Hashtag crazy mama!’

      Oh, I forgot to tell you. Karen talks in hashtags. No, really. It gets old pretty quickly. As a stay at home mum, Twitter is her only social outlet some days.

      ‘Barry and I had a whopper fight,’ I interrupt.

      ‘Ah, no!’

      ‘Will we meet up some time? For a real catch-up.’

      ‘Yeah! What about tonight! Let’s get hammered! Hashtag old school! FRANK!’ she bellows. ‘FRANK! FRAAAANK! I’m going out.’

      ‘Oh. OK, then. Are you sure that’s OK for tonight? Won’t Frank mind?’

      ‘Nah. Believe me, it’s my turn to get out. Haven’t done this in forever. FRANK! FRAAANK! Can you get the kids in the BAAAAATH! FRAAAANK.’

      There is a ringing in my left ear.

      I’ve suggested a local Chinese restaurant that hosts karaoke sessions on a Saturday night. It’s been christened ‘Curryoke’ by yours truly. Am I not so clever? Anyway, I find that at your lowest point, eating a few prawn crackers with the girls and belting out a couple of good old 1980s power ballads is the perfect night out. Never fails.

      Karen meets me within the hour. She’s only too thrilled to escape her domestic drudgery and teething toddlers for the evening. We hug hello at the restaurant.

      ‘You look amazing,’ I smile at Karen.

      Sickeningly, her twins are only babies and her daughter is nearly three, yet she is skinnier than me. It’s not fair. I vow to fatten her up by ordering something deep fried.

      ‘What? Sure the kids have me run ragged.’

      ‘Ah, no. Really?’

      ‘Yeah. Sure, Anna still doesn’t sleep through the night!’

      ‘Ah, but sure kids are like pancakes. The first one is always a throwaway.’

      Karen howls with laughter. I’ve no idea why.

      ‘Hilarious. Fecking Frank is working, like, all the time. I think he’s avoiding us. I don’t get any sleep. Oh, and this is the only thing that didn’t have baby vomit or snot on it!’ She points to her sequined top. ‘Hashtag ewwwww!’

      We are escorted to our tables and hand our heavy coats to the waiter. I’m wearing a new black dress and was thrilled to have an excuse to take the tags off. It’s very forgiving around the stomach area, which is handy because I plan on going to town with the spring rolls.

      ‘All OK at home?’ I enquire. ‘Do you need to call and check?’

      ‘Nah. I swear to God,’ whispers Karen, as if in confession. ‘Let fecking Frank get them to bed for a change.’

      We study the menu briefly and order a bottle of house white. Karen is giddy to be out of the house and away from 24/7 mammying. Soon the meal for two arrives. It is an embarrassingly large array of skewered chicken satay, baby ribs, spicy kung pao beef, egg fried rice, chips and noodles.

      Karen continues her monologue. She reveals the nightmare of sleep deprivation and admits to suffering from migraines since the twins were born. I feel a fleeting pang of guilt that I still have not come to visit the babies who are now three months old. Then I remember that the babies had colic, so no wonder I’ve been avoiding them like the plague. It’s a wonder that poor Karen is still sane with three pesky kids rubbing off the cream walls, with their boundless energy and unreasonable demands.

      ‘I think I’d need a lie down in a dark room after just one day of that,’ I admit.

      Karen isn’t like my other married friends. She doesn’t rattle on about clever potty training, or what ingenious things her brood can do until you want to stab yourself in the eye with a chicken skewer. She bitches about competitive mums and reveals what a pain in the ass it is to have to deal with nappy rash (if you’ll pardon the pun). She scoffs at others who tell you how angelic their little demons are. She tells it like it is.

      ‘I’ve instructed fecking Frank to only call me in an absolute emergency. And that does not include calling to ask me where the bloody Calpol is!’

      ‘Good luck to him!’ I raise my glass.

      We order a second bottle, as both of us seem quite thirsty.

      ‘Yeah, sure the last time myself and fecking Frank were out together on a date, I’d never heard of the term negative equity! Honestly, and all we talk about is whose turn it is to change the nappies!’

      Barry and I are starting to look like the Waltons in comparison. I top up the glasses and go over the whole Barry saga again in detail. It’s a refresher course in case she missed any bits over the phone.

      ‘I love him but…He just won’t commit!’ I leave out the bit about my dress fittings and cake tastings.

      ‘He will. Just give him more time. Honestly, he’ll come crawling back from the trip and thank his lucky stars he has such a ride like you. Hashtag hot stuff!’

      ‘Ah. Thanks.’

      I don’t think I can take another hashtag. I never thought I’d reach hashtag saturation point, but here I am.

      The next bottle of wine tastes even better than the last and the banana fritters arrive. Across the restaurant, we spy a couple on a date. They’re holding hands across the table. We titter. Their peace and quiet is about to be shattered gloriously. The waiters clear the top table and a large screen descends. Realisation dawns on the happy couple, as the word ‘Karaoke’ displays on the screen.

      ‘You’ve had your dinner,’ I raise my glass to Karen. ‘Now, here’s the show!’

      I snatch a microphone and laminated song book from a passing waitress and clear my throat. Let the games begin! There’s no need to consult the book, that’s for amateurs. I don’t mean to brag, but you have my permission to describe me as a karaoke master if you like. If they ever start giving out black belts for karaoke, I’ll be the first in line. I scrawl my choice on a scrap of paper and thrust it into the hand of our waiter. As Dr Phil says, ‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’

      Karen scribbles her selection and returns her attention to the cocktail menu. She orders two Cosmos and claims that they are for Dutch courage. The big moment is upon us. The opening lines of ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’ by The Human League appear on the screen.

      ‘You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar,’ warbles Karen, ‘when I met you.’

      The staff exchange uneasy looks and diners shift in their seats. The happy couple have hastily paid their bill and are reaching for their coats. I grab the microphone from Karen for the chorus.

      ‘Don’t you want me, Barry? Don’t you want me, woah!’

      Karen can’t sing any more because she is doubled over with laughter. She drains the last of her Cosmo and orders a Martini in an attempt to recapture our lost youth. I’m hogging the microphone for a passionate rendition of the Beyoncé classic ‘Single Ladies’.

      ‘If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.’

      Despite the fact that I’m pointing to my bare left ring finger during the heartfelt performance, the microphone is taken from me at the end. There’s a minor scuffle.

      ‘Uh-oh. Hashtag awkward!’

      ‘Shush, Karen.’

      We endure a tuneless rendition of Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’ from the next table. They’re murdering it, so we talk loudly over it. Some people are so tone deaf! I’ve retrieved the microphone, and treat my enchanted audience to a touching duet from ‘Dirty Dancing’. I play the part of Patrick Swayze aka Johnny Castle (quite convincingly, I think) and Karen plays the role of Jennifer Grey aka Baby. Not