We’ve been wanting to have a party, a formal affair — not the kind where friends come and dump on you with their problems and drink up all your whisky and puke over the carpet — for some time now, but with little luck. And no, not because we don’t have formal acquaintances, or because the cook is not up to a spiffy menu, or the intention doesn’t exist, but because it’s proving difficult to put together a list of guests that will not cause them, or us, embarrassment.
Take for instance our diplomatic acquaintances who, for reasons of peace between our two countries, I cannot name, but who have been kind with their offer of friendship, inviting us not to their embassy parties but for their salon tete-a-tetes at home. Unfortunately, the first time they invited us for a soiree my wife was travelling, on the next occasion I was occupied, and the third time round we were in the process of getting ready when uninvited neighbours arrived to help themselves to our bar, and just to make sure they didn’t pour the remaining alcohol down the sink in their drunken revels as they had once previously done, and finding that they were not open to the possibility of eviction, we had to abandon the idea of going out, though my wife was not in good humour.
No more invitations have since been received from them, and while the intention of thawing relations might seem a good idea, achieving it appears quite a task. “They couldn’t possibly accept our invitation when we’ve rejected theirs three times round,” explained my wife, who appears more aware of the complication of social rituals then I could ever hope to be. It make as much sense as the conundrum of socialising with our once dear, but now distant, friends, who some while ago celebrated the arrival of a grandchild into their family. For one reason or another, we could not then do the expected, of poking the baby in the stomach and chucking it under the chin, and as time passed, it seemed foolish to zip over to congratulate them on the arrival of the newborn when it was in danger of soon starting to walk and talk, or recite nursery rhymes. But ignoring the baby was just as despicable. Understanding our plight, our friends haven’t been able to ask us over for a drink, nor we call them for dinner, and while it’s entende cordiale for now, it’s beginning to resemble a cold war that oughtn’t.
“Nor can we invite your silly celebrity friends who’ve come home twice,” reminded my wife, “because then they’ll think they do not need to reciprocate our hospitality, that we’re seeking them out because we’re such losers,” she lapsed into adolescence-speak. “I know we must not invite the designer who is your friend,” I responded spitefully, “because she and her husband refused to come the last time you asked them.” “What about your idiot friends who forgot that they had been invited?” screeched my wife. “What about the time the hotelier ignored your invitation altogether?” I retaliated. “Fine,” shouted my wife, “I’m having a formal party, and you’ll see that everyone comes.”
Having set her mind to it, she chose a date and posted the invitations for the party, but as I’d predicted, the diplomats couldn’t come, nor the grandparents, nor anyone else who was on the list, for reasons unexplained. “Cheer up, it’s alright,” I said when I saw her moping at home. “But I’ve already paid the caterers an advance,” she said, “we have to have a party now.” “Let’s just call our gang for an informal get-together,” I agreed. “Right,” she said happily, “At worst, you’ll have to clean the vomit after everyone’s gone.”