That's the other half of me - the part filled with trepidation, less than eagerly anticipating... the quite obvious fact that even though between us we have invited close to 100 people, only about five will turn up. Nancy said she'll be there if there are vol au vents. Well, that's one, then.
Maybe I'm just getting old, but after sending out the invites, spending a fortune on food and alcohol, arranging a theme (all the music will be covers, from the popular likes of St Etienne to the bizarre likes of Snuff); I am beginning to get the creeping sensation of acute disappointment, and the first pack of peanuts hasn't even been opened yet. In truth, I hate parties, because that's when you are suddenly faced with the irrefutable evidence that you are roughly as popular as Colour Me Badd.
Trouble is, I can tell you now exactly what will happen:
At eight o' clock, one friend will be there, helping to ice the cakes, in return for licking the mixture out of the bowl.
At nine o' clock, a further two people will arrive. Neither of them will know each other. They'll sit in the corner, exchanging polite conversation and trying very hard not to look uncomfortable. One of them will be a med student. The other will work in a bank. "They'll be here in a minute," they'll say, "Probably just down the pub. You wait till the pubs shut - there'll be a flood of people through the door."
More like a leak, actually, as by half-past nine, you could fill a phonebox with the number of guests, and we start to really appreciate having a small flat. With that indomitable British Spirit, the guests will grit their teeth and have a good time - just like tourists in June at a seaside resort. "I don't care if it's minus four, we are going to swim in the sea and we will enjoy ourselves..." After a while, you realise that you don't actually recognise anyone.
By ten, the numbers will have improved, and you'll have to apologise if you accidentally open your bedroom door. We will have given up on the music and stuck a video on. I'll make some popcorn and we'll all fight over the last Pringle.
At five past eleven, we will run out of alcohol, having perfectly timed it so as to miss the off-licence.
Midnight, and the first guest will have thrown up. A seemingly loving couple will have had a violent row and she will have locked herself in the bathroom, refusing to come out. A small queue of people will have congregated outside, desperate to relieve themselves but anxious not to upset the distraught bickering couple. Somebody will ask if we have any empty bottles...
Half twelve, and somebody will break something. Valuable.
One o' clock, and somebody will be drunkenly using my telephone for a long, long time telling somebody else, "I love you baby, no really". Someone else will politely ask them to hang up and a fight will ensue.
Half past two, and the tearstained bickering couple will leave, apologising for "ruining my party".
Eight o' clock the following morning, and we'll all wake up with hangovers, and spend the morning picking ash and hairy peanuts out of the carpet. We'll never get those wine stains out. Rik will spend the morning ferrying everyone home. Somebody will wake up with temporary amnesia next to somebody they don't know, and I will be screaming for a Bloody Mary and an insurance policy.
I will swear never to throw a party again
in my life....
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............. until the next time...