gracious living

We went to a party this lunchtime, in Dedham.  The car park was being patrolled by an attendant who looked as though he was ready to break up a full-blown fight with broken bottles outside a night club, despite the fact that it was just before mid-day and the most outrageous thing he'd probably have to deal with was somebody not putting their two pounds in the machine.  He appeared so determined that the Systems Administrator waited with the car while I went to pay, otherwise I was sure we'd have been ticketed in the time it took us to walk across the car park and back.

I thought I'd enjoy myself at the party, and I did.  Nice and sensible hostess with a very elegant house and friends who like talking about books and films, what's not to like?  The SA meanwhile had found some other people to talk about photography, racing and cricket, so all tastes were catered for.  And the nibbles were a class act.  I can't see myself running to perfectly cooked individual scampi in little pots with a tiny helping of miniature chips, but the bite sized blinis with smoked salmon were an idea.  I think they were done with cream cheese rather than soured cream, so that they didn't drip down people's fronts and on the carpet.

It is very lux getting professional caterers in.  We have never done it, because we almost never give parties, and when we do guests have to make do with my cooking.  Which is not bad.  I am particularly fond of the salad from a 1970s vegetarian cookery book, containing potatoes, hard boiled eggs, gherkins, peppers, radishes, carrots and enough other ingredients that it's impossible to make one serving fewer than about twenty people.  But having posh hot finger food (teeny tiny sausages and very small satay) brought to you in an endless stream while you talk is extremely nice.  As is having your glass refilled, and someone appearing at your elbow offering to relieve you of your cocktail stick as soon as you've finished your tiny sausage.  I recognised the caterers from last year, and they would certainly be my first port of call if I suddenly found I needed some.

Getting home from a lunchtime do is always a case of back to earth with a bump, since the first thing we have to do is rush upstairs and change out of our tidy clothes before they can get cat fur on them.  Even that scarcely works.  I've had a supposedly tidy black cardigan hanging on the front of the wardrobe for days waiting for me to dab the white and ginger fur off it with sellotape.  The cats wore a plaintive and martyred air because their lunch was so late.  They should think themselves lucky.  Our hostess' two cats had to go and hide from the horrible visitors for the duration.