It is the day of the annual village party for all the children of the neighbourhood. Small Boy and Daughter are thus performing their annual ritual of moaning, groaning, tearing at their hair, clutching at their clothes and whimpering. Anyone would think they didn't want to go. Husband has baked a cake because he's on the village committee. Also because he believes it gives him street cred. I am busy looking out my most burqa-esque outfit in an attempt to fend off the attentions of The Dodger and his wandering hands. The Dodger is also on the village committee (which is the sole reason I am not) and considers himself to be a ladies' man. Sadly, no lady seems to concur with this view.
The only member of the family who is at all excited at the prospect of the party is the dog, and she is not invited. She also hasn't been walked all weekend, so is giving us a display of her best persuasion techniques in the following order: doleful look, reproachful look, anxious look, hopeful look, loving look, over-excitable-I-might-break-something-in-a-minute look. The first five of these are barely distinguishable to the untrained eye, as they are all comprised of a minuscule variation in the position of one eyebrow. The last is a desperate cry for attention involving much tail-wagging, tongue-lolling and general in-your-face dog-type behaviour.
At 3pm it begins spitting and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks until I hear that Husband is saying "we will only go for half an hour just to show our faces".
We arrive to find the Naughtiest Boy in the Village is already throwing stones at everyone and The Dodger is already accosting any female with a pulse, offering shiny puckered lips for a kiss or two and seductively murmuring that he has made the smoked salmon platter himself. He makes the question, "Would you like some pumpernickel?" sound like an indecent proposal.
I make a bee-line for the rose wine, and sandwich myself defensively between two Lovely Mums. I only speak to these women once a year, not because I do not like them, but because I never see them in the village at any other time. I am soon immersed in the inevitable conversation about holidays, going back to school and how everyone has grown. Daughter comes and stares at me with an expression which would rival the dog at her most baleful, but politely puts up with being told how much she has grown before disappearing behind a hedge with three girls as long-legged, long-haired and rolly-eyed as herself. They flop on to the grass and start bemoaning the older generation. I watch them enviously, but gamely force my attention back to a discussion about secondary schools while accepting another large glass of rose.
Small Boy is telling Husband that what we need is "a garden like this one: then could we have pigs and goats and guinea fowl and there'd be more room for even more chickens". At least he has stopped harping on about the budgie he fell in love with at the agricultural show we went to the day before. I have never seen a boy desire something so earnestly.
I move away from the Lovely Mums and start up a conversation with Ultra-Fit Dad about his latest exploits. He has recently travelled from Land's End to John O'Groats by bike and is now planning an extreme endurance run along the Gower peninsular. We talk running and sore knees and the merits of marathons versus triathlons as a form of mid-life crisis. Ultra-Fit Dad is very persuasive and is making extreme sport sound very exciting. I am on my third glass of rose, getting fired up at the idea of plunging into the river in a wetsuit and realising I am quite enjoying this party, actually.
"I think it's time to go," Husband says, planting a hand firmly on my shoulder as I wave my glass around expansively. "Before we do something we might regret," he adds warningly.
It might be too late for that. I haven't stopped thinking about wetsuits since.
The only member of the family who is at all excited at the prospect of the party is the dog, and she is not invited. She also hasn't been walked all weekend, so is giving us a display of her best persuasion techniques in the following order: doleful look, reproachful look, anxious look, hopeful look, loving look, over-excitable-I-might-break-something-in-a-minute look. The first five of these are barely distinguishable to the untrained eye, as they are all comprised of a minuscule variation in the position of one eyebrow. The last is a desperate cry for attention involving much tail-wagging, tongue-lolling and general in-your-face dog-type behaviour.
At 3pm it begins spitting and I offer up a silent prayer of thanks until I hear that Husband is saying "we will only go for half an hour just to show our faces".
We arrive to find the Naughtiest Boy in the Village is already throwing stones at everyone and The Dodger is already accosting any female with a pulse, offering shiny puckered lips for a kiss or two and seductively murmuring that he has made the smoked salmon platter himself. He makes the question, "Would you like some pumpernickel?" sound like an indecent proposal.
I make a bee-line for the rose wine, and sandwich myself defensively between two Lovely Mums. I only speak to these women once a year, not because I do not like them, but because I never see them in the village at any other time. I am soon immersed in the inevitable conversation about holidays, going back to school and how everyone has grown. Daughter comes and stares at me with an expression which would rival the dog at her most baleful, but politely puts up with being told how much she has grown before disappearing behind a hedge with three girls as long-legged, long-haired and rolly-eyed as herself. They flop on to the grass and start bemoaning the older generation. I watch them enviously, but gamely force my attention back to a discussion about secondary schools while accepting another large glass of rose.
Small Boy is telling Husband that what we need is "a garden like this one: then could we have pigs and goats and guinea fowl and there'd be more room for even more chickens". At least he has stopped harping on about the budgie he fell in love with at the agricultural show we went to the day before. I have never seen a boy desire something so earnestly.
I move away from the Lovely Mums and start up a conversation with Ultra-Fit Dad about his latest exploits. He has recently travelled from Land's End to John O'Groats by bike and is now planning an extreme endurance run along the Gower peninsular. We talk running and sore knees and the merits of marathons versus triathlons as a form of mid-life crisis. Ultra-Fit Dad is very persuasive and is making extreme sport sound very exciting. I am on my third glass of rose, getting fired up at the idea of plunging into the river in a wetsuit and realising I am quite enjoying this party, actually.
"I think it's time to go," Husband says, planting a hand firmly on my shoulder as I wave my glass around expansively. "Before we do something we might regret," he adds warningly.
It might be too late for that. I haven't stopped thinking about wetsuits since.
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