Party Poopers

In honour of Karen’s visit we decided to throw a bit of a do, our very first. We were a tad anxious. We didn’t want to transgress the unwritten social rules that must be obeyed. We sought the advice of catering Guru Chrissy on the food situation. She assured us that nibbles and a cold platter would be acceptable for a cocktail party. Guests will know to eat beforehand.

Our début soiree was well graced. Liam and Karen prepared a delightful spread of cold meats, cheeses, mezes, breads and objects on sticks. Karen mingled amiably with la crème dispensing easy urbane charm. We had our first delicious taste of Charlotte’s mother, Lucia, a seasoned older lady with a twinkle in the eye and a racy past. The more Lucia imbibed, the more her carefully cultivated middle class Donegal brogue degenerated into Bogside. Towards the end of the evening, we showed a DVD of our civil partnership ceremony – a calculated risk but one that went down a storm. Eyes welled, even those of macho Chuck.

Bernard got incredibly pissed very quickly and fell into the car at the end of the evening. He wasn’t fit to drive but managed to arrive home without running down any street dogs or wrapping his flash BCSD car around the trunk of an olive tree. Drink driving by emigreys is depressingly commonplace. Chrissy telephoned the next day and explained why Bernard had got so drunk – he didn’t eat because there wasn’t any hot food. ‘If it had been my party,’ she loftily pronounced, ‘I would have served a lasagne.‘ What a bloody cheek.

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