Throwing a party proves the old adage that if you over-cater just right, you can have cake and eat it for at least a week afterwards.
It’s one of the great byproducts of overthinking things so much, and really vindicates that decision to add the sponge mousse mud cake to the two-tonne blueberry and hopefully pin-free strawberry cheesecake, and that trusty old lemon-meringue pie, just in case people needed a bit of tart.
Try as they might, guests couldn’t mow it all down in one session and so we’ve been grazing on the sweet leftovers ever since. Yum!
Same with the meat. Seems we didn’t need half a cow after all, given the amount of chicken and fish.
Consequently, I’ve been having steak with my muesli for the last four mornings too. Followed by cake.
Again, not complaining, although the arteries might be soon. Just saying, throwing a party can be a catering feat.
Also a physical feat. Inevitably, before every great soiree, there has to be a house-cleaning catharsis.
Usually a three to four day event where you sweep, mow, hide, weed, poison and generally disguise all trace of your usual lifestyle. Wouldn’t want guests to get the impression you lived like a slob behind that goat and rusted car body out the front of the house.
(Note to self: must stash goat and rusted car body in roof cavity before guests turn up next time, along with everything else.)
To make matters even better on this occasion, I did my back with the first sweep of the garage. Ping!
I’m classifying it as a physical reaction to an emotional job, or vice versa. Some suggest it reflects the physical infirmity that comes with a birthday cake bearing that many candles.
When I later mentioned the injury to a woman, she replied “now you know what a woman feels like”, leaving me in a somewhat conflicted situation.
All I can say is this “#metoo bad back” made scrambling round under the house sourcing the party paraphenalia a real spinal tap.
The party chairs, party tables, shade sails (which we never used), gazebo (which nearly blew away mid event requiring me to burrow back under Middle Earth, I mean the house, for the tent pegs, which could have been in any of 10 tent bags) – I swear I saw a Thai soccer team down there.
Such is the clutter zone under the house, or the roof cavity. Like a Rubiks cube. To get a solution you have to reassemble all the parts each time you forget to get an item.
All done in the classic crouching position favoured at places like Abu Ghraib. With a back strain.
I wasn’t complaining, though, except maybe to the lady at the supermarket, because it was all for a good cause – my chiropractor. I mean the party.
And in the end, I got to have my cake and eat it too – indefinitely – which is pretty sweet.