In which our heroine enjoys a night of friends, hula-hoops & clichés

I had fun tonight. I wasn’t expecting to, but then isn’t that always the way?

 

As myself and two other friends have all recently turned 30 and because, for various reasons, we have been unable to get together as a group to celebrate these momentous episodes, another friend decided it was time to make the most of the nice weather and have a belated birthday, garden party (any excuse to get squiffy, really). The barbecue was duly liberated, vast quantities of meat and alcohol were purchased, invitations were issued (well, a text message was sent, stating “Party at mine. Sat. 1 May @ 6.30pm. Be there or be called a miserable b@stard”) and the best crockery, and anything else of a valuable and/or fragile nature was carefully hidden away.

 

The weather has been lovely for the last few days … except for last night, when it phissed down … and I’d spent the day watching the sun stream hazily through the window, whilst texting reassuring messages to our prospective hostess who had convinced herself that the mother of all storms was only waiting for 6.30pm before gate crashing her party.

 

Now, I don’t know what it’s like in other countries, but the English will whip off their long-johns, idiot mittens and chunky sweaters at the first glimmer of sunlight, and don their skimpiest summer outfits, consisting of many an off-white vest, Crocs, shorts which reveal a multitude of sins and crop tops which you can’t help but wish were at least 2 feet longer. It’s really quite disturbing. 

 

Anyway, I had that ages old dilemma, unique to the female of the species, i.e deciding what to wear.  

 

Here’s a picture to prove how old this fashion quandary really is: this is poor old Joan of Arc, way back in the 15th century, throwing up her arms in dismay as she wonders why she didn’t go for something more fitted (not to mention less flammable), that didn’t make her hips look the size of a chateau and better hid le bingo wings …

 

 

 

Fortunately, I’d given myself several hours to deal with said dilemma and was eventually only 30 minutes late, which I thought was rather commendable. Sashaying my way out the door in white trousers, checked strappy top, arctic fleece and sandals.

 

Yes. I said arctic fleece. I’m no dumb bunny, and though I may have been mercilessly mocked on my arrival at the party … I was to have the last, smug, WARM laugh later on.

 

But I’m jumping ahead of myself …

 

It was lovely to see everyone. We haven’t all gotten together in months and there was lots of catching up to do. Lots of congratulations on promotions and new jobs, new partners to meet (and critique), old partners to say good riddance to (and admit that we never really liked in the first place), one new car to gently mock (it’s a “Ka” and the driver is male, allegedly, and over 6’) and a boob job to avoid staring at. 

 

A fellow guest nervously pointed out a karaoke machine, that was lurking menacingly in a corner of the conservatory, I just blithely smiled (I still can’t speak very well at the moment and am therefore automatically exempt from all singing-related, group activities) and started to look forward to an evening of unmitigated derision.  I found myself a comfy sun chair with a handy, 270° view, sipped my Pimms and settled in for the ride.

 

Alas, I was not destined to be left in peace for long.

 

It turns out that the host’s sister had been visiting earlier in the day with her midgets children, who had rather unfortunately left, amongst other things, a hula-hoop.  One of the other guests, being male and therefore unconcerned by the need to achieve sartorial perfection, had arrived unfashionably early and made an impressive start on the wobbly pop. He had also discovered the hula-hoop and was busy challenging everybody to a “Hula-Hoop-Off”.

 

I sank down into my arctic fleece and prayed that it also doubled as an invisibility cloak, but the party Gods were apparently too busy doing the conga and spiking people’s drinks to notice, and sure enough, my turn came. 

 

I sat for the longest time, seeing what effect silence and a dignified yet icy stare of contempt would achieve,

 

“You got something in your eye?” was the only response I got, so with a sigh, mumbling about how people who pick on helpless invalids should have their private parts slathered with Tiger Balm, I got to my feet, took the hula-hoop, probably not very graciously, and assumed the position.

 

The time to beat was a not very impressive 2 minutes and 24 seconds.

 

I managed an equally unimpressive, but victorious (and that’s all that counts), 2 minutes and 41 seconds. Yesssssssss!

 

It was how I imagine it must feel to win gold at the Olympics … maybe for synchronised swimming or clay pigeon shooting.

 

I put my outstanding victory down to the fact that I have hips and therefore had something to better balance the hoop on. I bet Joan of Arc would’ve been ace at hula-hooping.

 

By 8.30 most of the gatherers were on their way to happy, drink-fuelled, befuddledness and the meat had reached that perfect barbecue state of being tougher than a Pirelli tyre on the outside whilst somehow managing to retain a pink, gelatinous spawning ground for E. coli in the middle. Thankful that I’d had the good sense to eat before I came out, I sat nibbling on a bagel, a secret little smile on my lips, and tried to guess which guest would get a bad case of the squits first.

 

Night soon fell and so did the temperature. My friends started to shiver in their shorts, as their fingers and toes turned an interesting shade of blue, whilst I snuggled into my sensible arctic fleece, feeling most satisfied with myself. Proud in our hardy Englishness, and since the hostess is a little bit scary had gone to a lot of trouble with fairy lights and candles, nobody dared suggest that we move the party indoors, even though it was rapidly reaching a temperature that would have had Captain Oates walking off, having first politely informed us all that he might be gone some time.  

 

Well, nobody dared that is until the hostess herself shouted the memorable words,

 

“Oh screw this! I’m freezing my tits off here and you’re all just sitting there, you bunch of bloody, amphibious freaks! Can we PLEASE go inside?”

 

And that’s how we ended up in the conservatory,  with the other guests all desperately trying to ignore the dreaded karaoke machine.

 

The poor fools didn’t stand a chance.

 

Why do people fight against singing karaoke, battle and protest with literally every shred of energy in their body, only to finally admit defeat and then elect to sing a power ballad totally beyond the vocal range of anybody, excepting maybe Mariah Carey or a howler monkey?

 

The ladies (and I use that term in the loosest sense of the word) can always be guaranteed to squeal out “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera, “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette, “If I Were a Boy” by Beyonce and “Without You” by said howler monkey Mariah Carey.

 

The men prefer singularly un-rousing versions of “Creep” by Radiohead, “With or Without You” by U2, “Starlight” by Muse and … “All Out of Love” by Air Supply (!!!!).

 

It was fabulous. I’ve never come so close to doing myself a mischief of the pee kind since i was eight four. And even though I nearly coughed up a lung and spat a half chewed raspberry over my white trousers (and we all know, as sure as Oompa Loompa’s buy cheap tanning products, that by putting on anything white we are jinxing and condemning ourselves to giddy new heights of staining), it felt really good to laugh.

 

It also made me realise how much I miss being able to sing (from the safety and privacy of my own home, I hasten to add). Earlier there had been dancing, I’d had a go and elegantly jiggled along to a couple of songs, I’d even participated in an impromptu recreation of “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls (they said I could be “Posh” and therefore no singing and very little dancing was required, I just had to stand there pouting, looking sulky and useless), but I soon realised that dancing without singing is a bit like having Alphabetti Spaghetti for dinner and not using the letters to spell out rude words that make your mother give you disapproving looks throughout the rest of the meal, i.e. pointless.

 

Anyway, as we and the evening grew older and brain cells were lost forever to an onslaught of cheap booze, things started to mellow. People slouched contentedly on the squishy sofas and companionable conversation was our only means of entertainment. Things took a disgustingly deep and meaningful turn when it was decided (not by me) that we should take it in turns to reveal what we all thought we’d be doing in 15 years time. Oh God! The wet, fetid tongue of unease and panic started to lick it’s way along the edge of my earlobe as I frantically tried to think of something urbane and witty to say before it got to my turn. Meanwhile, we discovered that people saw children, big houses, glittering careers and oodles of money (seriously … Prime Minister??) in their futures, along with adultery (that did NOT go down well), trips to the jungle and … er … Dolly Parton (!).

 

Eventually, inevitably all eyes, somewhat blearily, turned in my direction, and suddenly I felt like I had somehow slipped into an episode of ‘One Tree Hill’ or ‘The OC’ or one of those other ghastly generic and clichéd US teen shows. It was truly a bizarre moment, and suddenly I wanted to cry (mainly because of the whole ‘One Tree Hill’ thing) because all I could do was shake my head and admit that I didn’t have a clue, that I honestly couldn’t see that far ahead. And because that was a little bit scary. There was an uncomfortable silence, followed by a cackle of laughter and a chorus of fond voices affectionately shouting “Loser!”, which did actually make me feel better and brought me safely back to my own little corner of the universe, where I belong. 

 

I felt comfortable again … until one of the newbie boyfriends brought out a fecking guitar (I still have no idea where he’d had that thing concealed all evening) and proceeded to strum and sing in a rather wistful, beer-soaked voice, which in itself wasn’t too much of an ordeal, but he seemed to be playing every song on my “V Sad :(“ iPod playlist, which freaked me out. By the time he started on “Nobody Knows” by Pink he was seriously messing with my mellow and I knew it was time to go. I’d had a fun night, one I’ll probably remember until Monday for a long time and I wanted nothing to spoil it.

 

I cast one last, loving look around the room at my friends: there was Claire, born to be the hostess and truly one of the most frightening women I know, but who is a human fun machine, and the only person ever to have made me laugh so hard that I squirted Cherry Coke out of my nose. Andrew and Nita, made for each other but who say they will NEVER get married because Andrew only ever wears shorts, even in deepest Winter and Nita, though a very elegant drunk, would never make it past the first congratulatory glass of champagne at the reception without sliding into the nearest corner. There was Sophie, quirky, creative, hopelessly romantic, who can’t decide whether she wants to own an old fashioned sweet shop and ride around on a bike with a basket on the handlebars, or just get married, have loads of kids, live in a big, draughty, old house and wear long skirts and a bustle. There’s Damon, who looks like he should be in Oasis and is shockingly rubbish with hula-hoops, but who always uncomplainingly fixes the stuff we break and who has had a massive crush on Sophie for as long as I can remember and makes a really poor job of hiding his despair now that she’s got a boyfriend again. There’s Samuel, sleepy-eyed, way too obsessed with football and an Arsenal supporter (aka: tosser) to boot, but who sometimes catches my eye and gives me a reassuring half-smile which makes me feel as though he knows exactly what I’m thinking, as clearly as though I were holding my thoughts aloft on cue cards, ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’ style. And finally, there’s Lorraine, who is most definitely better in small doses, who can be stroppy and obnoxious and could probably incite full-on riots in paradise, but who would also do absolutely anything for her friends if they needed her.

 

Standing there, watching these people, I was suddenly reminded of that saying “Friends are the family we choose for ourselves” and for the first time, really felt the truth of it.

 

As we’d already established, I have no idea where I’m headed, but I think I might know who’ll be keeping me company along the way.

 

I had a fun night. And I was STILL home and in bed by 11:30pm!