IN VINO INVITAS
I'm thinking of a dedicated mezzanine floor in Château d'Enfer for those over-enthusiastic types who take advantage of us in our cups. You know how it should work: And there it ends, or so you'd hope and think. Up to a point, Lord Copper. I've noticed my poor mama seems to attract the heat: she knocks it back, issues extravagant invitations which - get this, poor thing - seem to inspire people to actually take them up. Of course, by the time the wannabe invitees get back to Maman, all memory of the evening have long since swirled down the memory hole. Whoops - but have you ever thought ... She was fronking sloshèd FER CHRIST'S SAKE!! And guess who gets dragged into helping? Ioanni Sapouni, that's right. It takes three hours to shop for the nibbles, including driving and dithering. 'Guests' seem to think that we'll be appeased by an offer to bring crisps and tsitsibirra but we don't do teenagey junk and we don't serve it to our guests. Out to the shops where we change our minds umpteen times - cheese pie, sausages in pastry? small tomaytoes in that yummy sauce ... then of course we spot things for a major shop of SNOOPS so that's another 30 mins as the dread hour approaches. "Mum - I haven't the faintest idea who they are. You met them two days ago at Lani's ... for four hourse they danced attendance on you as you regaled them with tales of the garden and paintings and 1001 Hong Kong nights. As I dragged you away, you showered invitations all around ... and now they're taking you up on it. Those of you who have tried this trick on me will know I stick to the same dulcet script. Wannabe Guest: It's round about this point that the twerp sees my stony expression: I stop him there. I don't care what we were talking about. A simple checklist: Yes? Well, that prolly means I was hog-snortin' commode-huggin' DRUNK. As for any invites or promises, read my leaps and rearrange the following into a well-known phrase or saying: Loipon, back to my trying to jog Mum's memory of our boorish guests when suddenly there's a scrunch of gravel and the groan of a clapped-out jalopy making the final steep turn. My mother rises to the occasion and dons her sunniest smile as she sweeps to the door to greet them: Hullooo? I saayy ... terribly sorry but can we make it another day? Not a good time. We're expecting guests."
In fact, as the vino goes down, so our appreciation and love for our New Best Friends goes up
But for my stalwart Mum, noblesse oblige so, despite not have a clue who these people are, she sets about cleaning the house, arranging new flowers, mopping and tidying the patio, clearing the paths ... and, of course, spending literally hours in the garden itself, trudging up and down the steps to make sure the garden shows itself to the best.
Whatever else I had planned - forget it. I should've kept a closer ear on Mater's Sancerre-sodden ramblings because now we're both lumbered with half a day's frantic preparation to be nice to a bunch of strangers.
Back home, cook, clean, decant, polish, rake, make bed, straighten paintings ... all the while my mother is calmly getting her wonderful amuse-gueules together
"Yo, Chris! Gosh you were on form the other night - talk about firing on all engines.
So ... I'm good to gig any time, dude. Just let me know when Big Jim Potts is ready to rock, and you did say you might be able to pull in Raul Scacchi and Kaliroe Raouzeou (fuuck - the Kaliroe Raouzeou? That would be awesome.)" "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? OK, so we were talking about-"
Did I perchance have a glass of firewater nearby?
"Oh for God's sake! What a time for sightseers!
1 comment :
Your only pissed because you have to cancel your own plans and clear time for helping you're mom host all these strangers she can't remember meeting. LOL. Remember to write about it when their gone.
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