Oh the horror of dinner parties.
For a start the expression is so loaded with expectation disappointment can’t help but appear on the menu. Nobody even knows how to boil and egg these days but we do all buy loads of glossy cookbooks with close-ups of food which look like they’ve been taken by a one-eyed drunk so we know the sort of thing we should be serving; and as guests we know when our hosts have got it wrong.
So to take the pressure off we instead invite friends over for “supper” which sounds much more laid-back, or if we feel really unconfident about our skills in the kitchen we might suggest to our guests that it’s “just something to eat – nothing formal – just a bite – in fact it’s so relaxed I’m practically comatose thinking about it and I might even forget to get any food in so it’s probably better to eat before you leave the house – that kind of thing.”
Of course the reality is at about four o’clock on the day itself you’ve thrown away the starters which even you couldn’t face eating, and you’re elbow deep in your own regret at even thinking you needed to return the favour to that nice enough but quite dreary couple from Balham who you met at John-In-HR’s civil partnership ceremony. But they’re coming soon enough, along with your good friends Becky and Damian. Well, Becky is your good friend and Damian has moved in with her and so you all have to accept him even though nobody actually likes him and for a LibDem he can get extremely aggressive about the intricacies of the funding structure of the new King’s Hospital sexual health wing on Denmark Hill. Alarmingly, after three years of going out Becky still listens raptly and laughs uproariously when he goes off on one and her friends inspect her closely hoping to be the first to spot the welcome note of sourness and boredom in her laugh which might suggest time to be called on Damian and his awful existence. But it hasn’t happened yet.
Then just so as it doesn’t feel too couple-y you invited that friend of your sisters who’s “ever so easy” but doesn’t eat red meat, fish with their heads on and porridge (just in case you were wondering) and Clive who you can’t really remember how you met and never returns the favour but not infrequently tells you how he’d like to come over for his tea one night.
Needless to say the food is a disappointment, the guests bore you rigid. Even Becky is someone you feel you might have outgrown, they drink everything in sight and leave you with washing up an army of Bosch dishwashers couldn’t cope with. Nobody thanks you apart from Fussy Eater Girl and her email focuses on the porridge she had in Glasgow once which didn’t actually make her throw up and by Monday morning the pain is beginning to fade just in time for Peter and Mad Lulu’s invitation to just-a-little-supper-nothing –much-really on Friday night and ridiculously you even find yourself beginning to look forward to it.
