Last weekend was long and very social. Firstly, Friday lunch at the Corner Bistro for snails, duck, good company and a bit too much wine.
On Saturday we attended a small 60th birthday lunch for c.150. I knew how this lunch would go when a certain Mr. M on my table was offered some Pol Roger by the waitress. He declined a champagne flute, instead grabbed a large wine glass and asked the waitress to fill it but not before putting in a fistful of ice. Others promptly followed his lead and off we went on a merry roller coaster. I eschewed the Pol and focused on the red wine: an excellent Rioja, a spectacular Barolo and a Moss Wood Cab Sav. It does not get much better than that.
The piece de resistance of the weekend was hosting my mother-in-law’s 90th birthday party. A swarm of octa- and nonagenarians descended on us. We allegedly had a Brazilian band, which did include some Brazilians, but they played mostly 50s and 60s American and British songs. It still had the desired effect as Zimmer frames and walking sticks were discarded while dodgy hips were ignored as the crowd hit the dance floor.
I had been warned about the eating capacity of this lot, so we were prepared with numerous platters of sandwiches, quiches, sushi, chicken parcels (whatever they are), pies, pasties, Lamingtons, chocolate brownies, almond slices and something with custard in the middle. I was in charge of the kitchen and boy did I have my work cut out. Our harassed waitresses would return after only two minutes with empty platters shouting for more food. It was like watching a flock of seagulls fight over a large bag of hot chips.
At one point I had to help serve the Lamingtons. As I leant forward to offer a Lamington to someone seated, I felt my arse being groped. I turned round to see a smiling woman obviously happy to cop a feel of a younger man. Outwardly unfazed I offered her a Lamington. By now her grip had moved from my left to my right buttock but she had a moment of indecision. She had a wine in one hand, a buttock in the other but clearly wanted a Lamington. The agony of choice. She chose buttock and Lamington as she put the wine down. She bit into the Lamington with a suggestive smile and desiccated coconut fell from her mouth, which was not far from my crotch. I decided it was best to leave. After all we had not been introduced. Luckily my wife called out to me, and I retreated to the kitchen with the tune of Beat the Retreat playing in my head.
Not that the kitchen was any sanctuary as I was soon cornered by a man, who insisted on outlining his plans to take my mother-in-law for a dirty weekend at the Hilton. Just stating this should have been enough for the emotionally intelligent, but such was his ardour that he was about to go into some detail. It was clearly Lamington time again, so I made my excuses and went outside making damned sure I did not go anywhere near anyone who was seated.
Last orders were meant to be at 6pm as the bus to collect a sizeable portion of the guests had arrived. It took some time to load them up and by now it was dark. However, two were missing so I went to look for them. Going down one side of the house, I found the two making out in the flower bed dangerously, and ironically, close to a young and recently planted passionfruit tree. I coughed loudly. No response at least to me. I coughed again, and still embraced, there was a mad scramble for underwear this time trying to put them on rather than taking them off. As I decided to give them privacy, I thought it best to hand round more Lamingtons to the remaining guests. Then I remembered we had finished the Lamingtons. Perhaps chocolate brownies would do.
P.S. It must have been a good party as someone left their Zimmer frame behind.