Party Pooper

At Party Central, the Operations Manager, was scooting around the church hall like a looney trying to simultaneously assemble tables for colouring, prepare dining tables to look like an advert for the Waitrose Entertaining Brochure, politely chat to the self declared, “bouncy castle man” about placing his flyers in my sealed party bags, hang spotty bunting from the roof tops, blow up balloons and attractively arrange fairy cakes for forty on duck egg blue cake stands and pink love heart platters.

Snowy had left me behind having gone back to Chez Chickie to collect one husband, a birthday baby and all the party food from the fridge. He was instructed to call on arrival to confirm what to bring. When the phone rang and Accountant was on the end of the line, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell Snowy was thinking. He knows full well stressful situations, Accountant and I don’t mix.

“Do you want the crème fraiche?”
“Yes”
“Dips?”
“Yes”
“Two packets of sausage rolls?”
“Of course I want the sausage rolls”
“Cocktail sausages?”
“What do you think?”
“Leftover sausage casserole?”
“What?”
“Do you want the remnants of the casserole?”
“Yes. The buffet wouldn’t be complete without it!”
“What?”
“I don’t want the sodding leftover casserole, you utter baffoon!”
“I can’t hear her, she’s cutting out!” he says to Snowy. The line goes dead.

A withdrawn Glam-Nan arrives, the pressure of supplying a homemade ‘choo choo’ birthday cake, one of her trifles, forty five choc chip cookies and a selection of cream cheese blini’s with parsley garnish all too much. I see the panic in her eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.
“Erm.... put the crisps in the bowl!”
“Okay, which bowl?”
“This one”
“Is that one big enough?”
“It’ll be fine, just put the crisps in!”
“All the same flavour, or different flavours?”
“I don’t care. Any bowl, any crisps”
“Okay” .... “I’m putting all different flavours in, is that okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine”
“May be we should use a bigger bowl?”
“AARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Accountant, Snowy and Birthday Chickie arrive and unload the food.

"Where are the carrot sticks?”, I enquire casually.
“I asked if we should bring them but he said no” explains Snowy, nodding at the bouncy castle where Accountant, as useful as ever, was diving headfirst into the inflated activity stations.
“Tell me please, what possible reason do you think I could have had for spending half of Friday chopping up 50 perfectly proportioned carrot sticks if they weren't for this party?” I hissed.

Snowy shrugged and wandered away from his mad, red faced and sweaty daughter to start scoffing the buffet, and there he remained with a fairy cake lodged in each cheek for the rest of the party.