It was some time after nine when the front door opened to let in my wife's first guest, an outstation visitor for whom my wife had laid out a "social salon" - which is how you refer to intimate dinners of a few, select people. Because my wife was still in the kitchen supervising preparations, I was dispatched to play host, but our guest was not easily distracted with blandishments of conversation, or wine, and strode into the kitchen. "Eeyw," she said to my wife, "I can't give you a hug when you're all sweaty." "My dear," retaliated my wife, "it is insensitive of you to come for dinner so early when our other guests will not be here before 10. And now, if you'll excuse me, I will go and take a quick shower instead of the long bath I had hoped for."
Their endearments over, I was getting ready to pour a drink when the door opened in quick succession as guests followed other guests, as though premeditated. "I told everybody to come early," our first guest explained, "now hurry up and organise the bar." Because I thought I had time on my hands, I hadn't taken out the bottles of whisky and vodka for the bartender, and now with the cupboard open, it was difficult to tuck away the expensive liquor, so the finest that I had been saving for special occasions was lined up for their consumption.
One forgetful guest kept misplacing his tumbler, asking for fresh pourings of an expensive single malt. Our neighbours wanted to keep trying different cocktails, not bothering to finish them before requesting others. And the dog, who'd received a whacking from me for wolfing down a platter of sushi, retaliated by treating himself to a chocolate cake that another guest had brought for dessert. My wife's occasional best friend, Sarla, managed to spill a glass of merlot over the sofa, apologising profusely but making matters worse by pouring a flask of water over its new upholstery.
By the time my wife had taken a shower, changed, put on make-up, decided she didn't like her choice of clothes, changed again, then reapplied her make-up, it was late, so her appearance in the living room went unnoticed. "I really think you should take some trouble to comment on my presence," she told our friends, who giggled. It was the wrong thing to do, because if there's anything my wife dislikes more than being ignored, it is being made fun of. "I am tired," she said, "I am asking the cook to lay dinner," ignoring all groans of protest.
Could they watch IPL? "No," said my wife, "cricket gives me a headache." Music? "I can't bear adults behaving like adolescents," she cribbed. The cook wanted to know if the lasagna required baking, so she said it didn't matter, the philistines wouldn't know the difference. The salad was served without the dressing. Even though she had a replacement dessert, she said there was no need to put it out. Because the guests seemed reluctant to pick up their plates before they'd put down their glasses, she reminded them she had work to do, and heading for her desk, she opened her laptop to reply to e-mails, flirt with her Facebook acquaintances, before changing into her nightclothes. "Early to arrive, early to leave," she nodded approvingly, ushering her guests out, before asking the cook to lay a table for two "so at least sahib and I can have a nice dinner in peace".
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