Here I am, enjoying one of those rare moments when I have
nothing much to do and, surprisingly, nothing much to plan for … quietly wondering if my poor liver will
survive another month … when it occurs to me that I haven’t blogged for a
while.
What an unfortunate term that is – ‘blogged.’ Is there a verb ‘to blog?’ Yes there is, I’ve just checked. So here I am blogging, and once finished, I
will have blogged. Mmmm … sounds gross! I can hear the conversation now -
“I’ve just blogged…”
“Oh dear, try not to worry about it…”
Anyway, so, why no blogs for a while?
I can’t adopt a ‘poor me’ expression and say, “well nothing
ever happens worth talking about,” because that is such a lie! The truth is that, with one exception, I’ve
been caught up in a plethora of parties, a torrent of terrific trysts so time
consuming that I have been rendered blog-less.
Let me explain …
February saw the first ‘do’.
My brother Nigel’s fiftieth, hosted by my sister Paula and me. A fairly modest little bash, catering for
around thirty people. All events in my
family – no matter how small - demand many, many hours of
planning. And, obviously, you can’t plan
without wine. Lots of wine. Can you?
Well, apart from the losing battle with my underwear, (see previous blog) this little ‘do’
passed without incident.
Then came March’s do – Tom’s seventieth. This had
been a full twelve months in the planning and all seventy – coincidentally -
guests had been sworn to secrecy. Poor
Tom must have wondered why his big birthday was being utterly ignored, when a
simple Friday is usually grounds enough for a bit of a celebration. This do smacked of a covert military
operation and Paula was in total command. Performers of global renown had been secured
via their agent a year in advance and at great expense. The hotel was booked; table plans done,
menus decided. Even the posh frock was
hiding in the wardrobe. Sorted.
What could possibly go wrong?
And then came the phone call.
“Sorry, we’re triple booked.
We can’t accommodate you,” said the very brave hotel receptionist.
With murder in mind, I accompanied Paula to a meeting with
the Manager. Death threats proved
ineffective, demands for compensation fell on deaf ears, and swearing that
would shock the most seasoned soldier failed to intimidate this excuse of an
hotelier, but at least it helped expel the tiniest bit of rage.
Dilemma! A few weeks
to the do of the century and no venue!
A thousand phone calls and as many wine bottles later, we discovered
that there were only two venues available in the whole of Scarborough. One pathetic offering - a shabby, draughty
old function room at the Spa, where only the dirt came free, was instantly dismissed. But
the last - our final hope - was perfect! Far superior, far classier, and far more
worthy of posh frocks than the original venue.
Within days the whole operation had been re-planned.
And still Tom had no
clue.
The secret was kept right up to the point when Tom’s guests
leapt from their hiding places and he was surprised again when his favourite
performers, Paul Jones (think Manfred
Mann) and Dave Kelly came on and wowed us all.
So March marched on to April…
A perfect little pyjama party proved precisely the right
prelude to Mel’s forthcoming wedding and we four hens clucked our way to Mel’s Newcastle
home to indulge in girlie gossip, guilt-free grub and bucket-loads of beauty
babble washed down with barrel-loads of booze.
Thanks to the wearing of jim-jams we didn’t have to suffer the
indignities brought about by suffocating underwear or the agony of ill-fitting
shoes. The only pain we endured was the mild
morning hangover that denotes a damn good do.
Just as it should be!
The merry month of May hosted Mel and Derek’s magnificent
wedding. A superb and lavish occasion
made extra special by their chosen themes:
popular music to reflect their passion and a black and white colour
scheme to echo their exquisite taste.
The magical mix of Geordies and Tykes made for a truly memorable day - well, that is, the bits of it I can actually remember!
Of course all ‘dos’ away from home are tinged with sadness
because Nigel can’t attend, and missing his sister’s wedding was particularly
hard. His illness now means he is
confined to the house where, with the help of his carers, he can access his
equipment. Being away from home for any
length of time is now too difficult and too stressful.
As May merged into June, Nigel’s sister Tracey came to
visit. Both our birthdays are in June,
and so, there followed a week of … yes,
well, you know the script by now!
Once July arrived you would have thought there would be some
respite and I could take a break from all this fun? Not a bit of it. Paula and I took ourselves off for a weekend
with Becky and indulged once more in gossip, food … and of course, the odd
glass of wine.
Nothing else was supposed to happen in July. The
rest of this month was to be quiet. It
was a time to recharge the batteries in readiness for August’s activities.
But then Dad died.
Whilst not altogether unexpected, it was still a shock.
And so an entirely different type of planning began in
earnest. How to capture, in a thirty-minute
service, the very essence of the man? How
to celebrate his full and rewarding life, whilst mourning his loss? How to ensure his funeral was worthy of him:
remaining dignified whilst at the same time enjoyable? How to remember and honour him, with equal
measures of sadness and joy?
Well, we did.
He would have loved it.
Then, as is usual, July gave way to August.
It is not possible, in my family, to turn forty and get away
with not having a party - however small
that party may be. And so, as Craig’s
fortieth birthday dawned, we imposed on him and his brood an intimate family gathering. The
venue – Nigel’s Company penthouse on the beach, completely wheelchair accessible
- was the ideal place to spend a few precious hours on a wonderful summer’s
afternoon. Of course there were
balloons, a most impressive cake, simply excellent food, the best possible
company, and, oh, I almost forgot to mention, one or two bottles of
bubbles.
As the August heat intensified, poor Nigel became desperate
for a break. Alarm bells sounded and
pangs of panic persisted, caring carers begged for something to be done ….
Well, I’m nothing if not considerate, so I buggered off to
Malta with Paula and Tom for a week’s holiday in the sun! I mean, fair’s fair eh?
And when I returned, September had arrived and there was
much to do! The do of all dos, Nigel’s
sixtieth, was about to take place. There were two big reasons for this party. Obviously, every decade birthday should be
celebrated, and especially a sixtieth, but there was much more to this party
than that. We were celebrating the fact
that Nigel is still alive. Seven years
ago he was given three to five years to live – and here he is. Party time!
This particular shindig was not without its challenges – for
Nigel’s comfort, the party had to take place at home, and there were over
eighty on the guest list. Nothing we couldn’t
cope with!
As any event planner will tell you, good parties don’t just
happen. It takes hard work to make
anything look effortless. For me, the
success of Nigel’s party lies in the memory of his beaming smile and that
courageous and moving speech.
You can’t plan for moments like that.
September slipped into October in a bit of haze and Danny
turned forty before I’d even cleared up.
A relatively small affair this one, as Danny and Ellie were
heading off to London to see a show.
Just a regular little Friday night family meal – with balloons and
stuff, of course -
- I can’t imagine why the hangover lasted until the Monday.
So, in the past nine months we’ve had two fortieths; a
fiftieth; a sixtieth and a seventieth: plus a wedding; a funeral; three girlie
get-togethers and a holiday.
Is there any wonder why I haven’t blogged?
Not surprisingly, we are planning a very quiet Christmas and
New Year. Indeed, not a single party is in
the diary for 2015. Yet.
Who knows, I might even find time to blog?
But perhaps, more importantly …
… my liver will be saved!
