Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Reformed Party Pooper
So how went the dreaded party last Saturday? A lot better than I had expected. First of all, we eventually quite enjoyed dressing up in Gatsby stuff - luckily that involved no expense - husband borrowed small son's newly-purchased suspenders, black with white stars on. By dint of expanding them to their fullest we just got them to fit. He then donned cream chinos and white shirt and I found him a type of Panama hat the bank had supplied once for a golf day, white straw with a navy-blue band. However he refused to wear this until he had obliterated the bank's logo with an indelible pen. My cupboard yielded long beads which I had worn for a similar theme 15 years ago and I found a feathery thing with little pearls that I'd made for my head for my daughter's wedding instead of a hat. There was also a black sweat band I used for gym to which I could attach it. I wore a knee-length back linen shift and silver shoes and bag. At the venue, everyone had played the game and the room looked like a Godfathers' convention - LOL . Chatting was great, food was great, speeches were good - then came the bit I dread - the music and 'dancing'. I should have remembered though that these were mostly Afrikaans-speaking people and the music was 'sakkie-sakkie' (I'm sorry but this defies description in English - perhaps you can google?) - supplied by an impressive-looking modern juke-box. This essentially means that you can do waltz and quick-step or your-own-thing and also everyone knows the words. Unfortunately, my husband and I can't dance together - I insist that he has two flat feet and no rhythm: I feel justified in this judgment as I still have a Silver Medal for Ballroom Dance in my jewelry box from when I was 16. He claims to be equally proficient, having been taught by the English master at Boarding School. Our pride prevents us from disgracing ourselves together on the floor, so we just sit at the table and watch. I no longer mind: I pick out the best dancers (usually a couple over 65) and imagine myself in their shoes. These days I have a new diversion - I listened to the drums and tried to imitate the beats on the table top and on my knees; at least until my husband informed me that I was attracting attention. There is one last option - tried and tested. You can imagine the men stripped of all but their socks.