I woke late-ish on Sunday morning. We’d had the most fabulous night as a family celebrating my youngest daughter’s wedding to a wonderful young man. The drinks flowed like wine, we danced our feet off and the love and happiness was palpable.
The only downer was when we got the surprise result for the election. Almost without exception, the mostly young, inner-city, left-leaning, arty-farty crowd decided to put their disappointment to one side and continue to party. I sent a couple of ill-advised tweets to express my dashed hopes (note to self: never drink and tweet) before I, too, gave myself a quick talking-to and went back to enjoying the celebration with my daughter and new son-in-law.
When I woke, the first thing that hit me on the screen of my phone was a message calling me an «absolute bitch …» I didn’t read any further. There was also a barrage from people offering me a trip to the airport – not in a nice way – because I had said I wished I was a New Zealander.
My eldest daughter, who is an administrator on my facebook account, revealed she had spent the morning deleting similar messages and bad wishes so I didn’t see them. I love my daughters.