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 32nd 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.
