Day Fifty One

Collapse of stout party... total silliness

When I was 60 I decided to throw a small party but Napoleon wasn’t available.

The first thing was to decide what food to serve.  George, the guy who lives on the 32^nd floor offered to make BBQ  beef but I told him the steaks were too high.

I always like to seafood,  I remembered seeing an advert for extremely cheap fish but there had to be a catch. 

Everyone’s  favourite soup was one made from root vegetables, they agreed my 24 carrot soup was real gold.

My best friend Tony requested jelly with cream and custard.  I gave in because I didn’t want to trifle with his affections.  

 Someone else wanted cheese and crackers, a great idea, I love fireworks.

A lot of my friends offered to bring edible contributions. 

Ruth said she’d bring Devils on Horseback but I didn’t think the apartment was big enough for 24 ponies.

Jenny, who’s vegetarian suggested crudités but I wanted to keep the party clean. For the same reason I rejected the Bakewell tarts.

Mary whined about the Sauvignon Blanc,  Bill requested a mixed fruit drink but I knew he was an ex-boxer and could get a bit punch-drunk.

 Joe said the beer was too small but I didn’t plan to serve  coffee as I wished to stay grounded.

There were many reminders that I was getting older.  Maria brought a beautiful cake, shaped like a  clock. Eating that was time consuming. 

Eloise gave me an egg timer but when I tried it out, it lasted only a minute. Obviously it was filled with quicksand.

My colleague from work is a musician, always an upbeat lady, she asked me not to serve fish; she doesn’t like the scales.  She brought a gift of herbs with the note ‘Thyme is money.’

Ajit brought Vindaloo but I knew he was only trying to curry favour. It was a chilli day and he advised me to wear warm clothes. That was silly, I don’t own cold clothes.

My brother likes to remind me of my age so he gave me a calendar - its days are numbered and my dopey cousin Tarren, stumbled in looking vague and said, ‘I got past and future covered but I forgot the present.’

My casting director mate arrived with a plate of plum rolls. He’s doing well making gritty movies about sand. Even his little son is playing miner roles.

 He once got himself into a pickle, walking up and down advertising preserved vegetables.  His next job was sweeter, he got into a jam.

To preserve that job he had to eat so much of the product that his teeth started to rot. He didn’t mind, he told me he’d been to his dentist so many times he knew the drill.   

It looked as if we’d have a full house except for my friend Angela Marlin. I said I’d tell her all about it next time dropped her a line.

The only fly in the ointment was Mosquito, Peter’s dog who had an accident on the hall carpet, a real party pooper.

Despite all that, the party went with a swing - it had to be returned to Ralph’s garden.

 Stay alert! The world needs lerts.