Open Writing

The party season is galloping ferociously towards us once again. Who knows what exciting invitations may flood the letterbox one of these chilly mornings?

Will it be a curt summons to appear before auntie for the annual relative round-up; a nostalgic noggin in someone else’s armchair, or are you the type who commands those exotic ‘Come in disguise’ invitations, ‘dressed up hysterically’ is the way my mother describes it.

For one party I heard of the suggested gear was leather and lace, only no one knew which sex was supposed to wear what. Confusing but fun.

Small dinner parties, I mean the free non-gratis kinds are my favourites. Over-crowded house parties are sadly overrated.

Standing alone with an empty glass trying to appear glad your husband gets on so well with the opposite sex can be an ageing experience.

Many Christmases ago I unwittingly shaped my image for all parties to follow. I was in scintillating party mood, rib-tickling gems flowed through my teeth – I was everybody’s favourite wise-crack.

Whether this was due to the hock or perhaps the moon moving out of Uranus, who knows but I set a sparkling precedent that night which, unfortunately, I am not only expected to live up to, but improve on each year!

‘Here she is folks!’ Hosts threw me to the hounds the minute they tore of my overcoat. The strain of being an amusement is killing me. There’s this serious character trapped inside me screaming to get out. But there is no escape, the minute I stop to catch breath someone says ‘What’s wrong?’

I find strange characters come up to me and start grinning expectantly, and I’m only reaching for a sausage roll.

One year I did manage a short escape, but it meant listening to the clinical details of a garrulous gourmet’s womb disorders, all through the lasagne.

Then there are the athletic get-togethers. One drink and you are expected to indulge in death-defying leaps for spinning dinner plates, or retrieve an orange from inside some guy’s beard, if the garlic fumes don’t get you first.

Other Christmas displeasures that leave an ugly taste are artificial Christmas trees, shop made mince pies, gift vouchers, modern carols, packet stuffing and Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas.’ Santas showing their pin stripes and anyone who moans that it’s all a waste of money and cards that ignore the Christmas message ie: the birth of Christ.

I once saw a strip cartoon that showed two snooty dames choosing cards. One had a picture depicting the virgin birth. The caption said: ‘Look at this Fiona they’re even trying to bring religion into Christmas now!’