Emily Joyce: House Parties
Week 12: Everyone passes the parcel at the idea of house parties, except at my nephew’s
AM. Did nothing all weekend, except clean the congealed spots of god-knows-what from the bathroom floor and then I went over to Bessie Mate Fiona's and did hers too. Have to say, Aldi are certainly the front-runners when it comes to being your one-stop shop for all affordable cleaning and hygiene-related products.
PM. To do: buy more of those handy antibac wipes, great for getting those encrusted kitchen counters gleaming again ... and they're flushable.
AM. Bloody hell, just read the above; what's happening to me? I need a night of raucous debauchery, stat. I used to tear people's houses apart, not give them a good spit and polish.
PM. Office-wide discussion on house parties and how they were a weekly feature during the college years. Typically, you brazenly show up at a party at the flat of someone you never even heard of. You'd arrive with two cans, end up drinking eight, snog some long-haired, greasy tit from engineering, then puke on the landing and finally wake up on a couch with drool on your chin, a mouth like sandpaper and a head like a pneumatic drill. Happy days.
AM. Spent the morning trying to convince colleagues to have a house party, but they're all too concerned with their feckin' hardwood floors. Bollocks. A rip-roaring knees-up is just the thing I need to liberate me from my dull mid-30s slump.
PM. Aha! Just remembered, it's my nephew's eighth birthday party this week ... it'll have to do. Will wangle an invite.
AM. On to the brother last night and it seems I am still in the party bad books after making a disgrace of myself last year. I still say that I won pass the parcel fair and square, and I didn't cheat by holding on to it for longer than I had to, like most of the kids there. But, oh no, apparently adults have to forfeit prizes so kids can feel good about themselves. Told my brother I might have to think about whether or not I'll go, as I have a very full schedule.
PM. Just thinking, my brother has a bloody cheek. At least I bother to interact with the kids, rather than doing what all the other adults do: sit in a corner quaffing wine, cackling and gorging on Rice Krispie buns.
AM. Still feeling sore about being told the correct way to behave at a party. Agony Aunt Kay has been helping me as I struggle with re-surfacing traumatic memories from my childhood; specifically how, when I was seven, I got ejected from David Reid's seventh birthday party for repeating the urban myth that if you eat a bag of Space Dust while drinking Coke, your insides explode.
PM. After reaching a breakthrough with Agony Aunt Kay and consulting Owen, I have decided to be gracious and go to the party. Rang my brother to promise him I'd behave like an adult, and even stopped short of calling him an arse-face git.
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