“Me and Perran and Zac and Ella are going to dress up as ABBA,”
announced Carenza, “For our house party. The theme’s going to be Pop.”
“Oh, that sounds fun,” I say, “When’s that going to be?”
“So we’re having a look at cheap
platform boots.”
A week later and Perran is musing
on the party.
“We could decorate the house as
if it was under-water – I know this brilliant way of attaching streamers to
umbrellas to make them look like jelly fish.”
“Great idea. So when is this aquatic-themed Abba party
going to be then?”
“Maybe not, though. Better just to stick to the idea of Pop.”
Nigel says, “Perran and Carenza
are really looking forward to this house party they’re having, aren’t they?”
“Yes, although I’m not sure when
it is. Do you know?”
It turns out that although both
of us have asked, neither of us knows.
They are clearly worried that we
will turn up and embarrass them.
The very idea.
After all, it’s more than a
decade ago since we traumatised them by leaving the house for an Eighties Party
with Nigel dressed as “Frankie goes to Bricket Wood”.
Harumph.
I Whatsapp them: “Am ordering my
white satin cat-suit and want to make sure it arrives on time. When did you say your party was again?”
No reply.
“Your father’s Gary Glitter chest
wig has arrived. Could you please tell
us the date of your party so we know if we need to extend the hire period.”
No reply.
On the evening of the party, I Whatsapp
again:
“We should be with you by
6.25. Hope that’s not too early, but we
want to allow plenty of time for pre-loading.”
Then in the morning:
“We knocked for ever such a long
time, but nobody let us in. Perhaps the
music was too loud?”
I turn to Nigel: “Oh well. I’m not convinced a white satin cat suit
would have looked good on me anyway.”
