In other, slightly less philosophical news, yesterday we successfully contained 18 shrieking idiots in the village hall. Technically, it was a children’s party. In reality, it was a fairly shambolic affair, post-apocalyptic levels of noise combined with homemade child “pizza”, some improvised variations on musical statues and a bit of confusion on what the point was of the marshmallow eating game (there wasn’t one, just a ruse so I could eat the leftovers) however I think a good time was had by all. (Children. A good time had by all children. No adult has EVER had a good time at a children’s party in a village hall) (with the possible exception of my mum, but we’ll get to that…).
My mum and dad had promised to come down to help. This is great of them, as they have much better things to be doing – running a wonderful B&B, frequenting book club meetings in houses they’ve always liked the look of, the keeping of assorted screws and washers dating back to 1973, walking clubs, posing complex searching questions to potential children in law, making jam. (You need a special pan). All in, they are wonderful, very hardworking, extremely normal people in their sixties.
So hours before the party, it threw me a bit when my dad rang
Dad: Hi there
Me: Hi, how’s things?
Dad: Fine, fine. So there’s been a bit of a change of plan today
Dad: Yes. Well. We’ll still be coming to the party. But we won’t be able to help because Mum will be COMPLETELY OFF HER HEAD on Temazepam. Ok?
Dad: So see you in a bit then. Bye!
Most irregular. Turns out it was for legitimate purposes, (although weirdly I couldn’t actually see much of a difference between normal mum and smacked off her tits mum). She did gleefully inform me of her intentions to sell the rest to my sister though, so watch out Sheffield…