100TWC - Day 99: Friendship

This post has a lot of tags. It started off with more but I blew Blogger's limit. I didn't even know there was a limit! See, friendship touches so many areas of my life that Blogger can't cope. I'm half expecting it to seize up in the middle of this post. Let's see how we get on...

With the last post of my 100-day (aka 100-theme) writing challenge in sight, friendship has been much on my mind. I've had some really nice comments and feedback on here, but what's been even better, and more surprising, is the feedback I've had in real life. Whenever I've met up with friends at least one of them has commented on each occasion how much they've been enjoying the writing. I've been enjoying it too, of course, in fact that's one of the things I'll be including in the "lessons learned" follow-up post I'll be writing over the weekend. But it's one thing to gain enjoyment from something yourself, and totally another thing to find out that you've been giving enjoyment to others. Writing can be a solitary experience (all writers say this, at least those who speak/write/email to me) with -- often -- not much in the way of validation or appreciation, so it's really cool to hear the opinions of readers, which posts they liked best and why, etc.

I'd also be really interested to hear which ones folk thought didn't work out so well. To see how this matches my own feelings, for one thing, but also because it's all part of the learning experience. Just doing this stuff has helped me improve enormously, but really good feedback that mentions the bad as well as the good, is also a huge help.

I appear to have drifted off topic somewhat, so to drag it back to friendship: I've been lucky. When I talk about the times we have with mates -- the trips to the Lakes, weekends away, meals out (and in) -- the single most common response is how unusual it is for a bunch of guys to have kept a communal friendship going for so long. I'm not sure how rare it is in the great scheme of things, but those who comment on it seem to think it's pretty rare. Much more common for women to have a "girly group of friends"; less so for guys to have a "blokey group", apparently.

I've known for many years that social groups depend on key individuals to hold them together. I had an old colleagues network at one time -- around two dozen people who all used to work together in the same part of the organisation until one dark day a reorganisation came along and scattered us all across the company. Some left for other jobs, some took the opportunity for early retirement, most split up into three or four units, separated by geography, department and skill set. For several years after the split, we would get together two or three times a year (Christmas, obviously, and then one or two other meals or social events like bowling, walking, pub crawls). These were all marvellous events, well attended and very popular, but they all had a single individual -- the same guy in every case -- as the instigator. And then one day he stopped doing it. And none of us have ever met up again since that day.

The small group of friends I always refer to as my "Nottingham" mates (even though only two of them live there now) have strength in depth when it comes to organising get-togethers. It's not driven by just one of us. Once a few weeks, or a months, have gone by since our last meet, one or other of us will get in touch to set something else up. Often we don't need to do this, as we arrange it in advance at the previous one. It's a source of infinite variety, pleasure, amusement and fun to Nikki and I to be able to be part of this, as I'm sure anyone who is lucky enough to have their own strong ties of friendship will understand. Friends, they say, are the family you choose, and I would tag that with "lines I wish I'd written" if there was any space left in the tag list :0)

As I've discovered (and blogged about before), friends come at you from all parts of life, and another group that I've been blessed to reconnect with -- a few years back now -- has been the curry crew. We may only meet once a month, but I find myself looking forward to those evenings immensely. The conversation always flows, it's always stimulating and amusing, and the food is only the icing on the cake (if curry can be said to be any kind of icing).

I have a small number of friends that fall into another different category. All of the aforementioned might be classed as "regular" friends, and if such a term fits then this small number I'm talking about now might correspondingly be referred to as "irregular" friends. People who, over the years, have meandered in and out of my life seemingly at random, but who whenever we meet will pick up the threads of friendship (and even conversation!) and knit them back into something recognisable within a few hours. I met one such person outside a hotel once, a few years back. Having not seen him for more than five years, suddenly there he was, leaving a hotel at which I had arrived to meet someone else. We only had chance for twenty minutes frantic catching up and exchanging of current contact details, but it rekindled some long-buried memories and the spark of yet another friendship stretching back to the mid 1970s. We originally met at university and the names of other uni friends crop up regularly in the strangest places. Naturally the Internet is the perfect medium for this and over the years I've had the occasional email from old friends who've read this blog, or seen my profile on LinkedIn, or Friends Reunited, or found my website through Google.

There is a downside to this though. The reality of how easy it is to lose touch with people was brought home to me when I attended a school reunion about 15 years ago. It was such a strange experience I vowed never to attend one again (although I was tempted a couple of years back when they held a 25th -- or was it 30th? -- reunion). Not only the experience -- spending 3 or 4 hours in a function room with 50 people who at one time I saw on a daily basis but who, with one exception, I hadn't seen for 15 years -- but the aftermath. The impact of the realisation that I had completely lost touch with all of them, even those I'd thought of as close friends, really hit me surprisingly hard. I guess it just shows that friends are more than simply people you spend time with. Just as it's easy to be lonely in a crowded room, rubbing shoulders with a bunch of people every day for six years doesn't necessarily make them your friends. It knocked me for six a bit, did that.

Wedding of the Year

Can't be many happier occasions than witnessing two of your best friends getting spliced, and that's exactly where we were yesterday afternoon, in the company of most of the rest of our best friends, their friends, family and a bunch of very energetic small people. The kind that make weddings... um... loud. No, fun. That's it. Fun.

Starting as we meant to go on with a glass of bubbly at Phil & Vicky's (excellent hosts as always), we wended our slightly circuitous way (on account of an overturned lorry on the A617) to Mansfield Registry office for the ceremony and then, with the day's official business out of the way, we settled down to the more important business of celebrating the nuptials with further champagne, and related (and unrelated) beverages, relieved on occasion by the odd sausage roll (really nice ones, as it happened) and dollop of coleslaw.

Called upon - owing to my acclaimed position as "resident wordsmith" - to pen something in the wedding book on behalf of the mates, I can't help feeling I disgraced myself somewhat, on account of the evening's overindulgences and the ebullient flavour of the day, but what's done is done, and whatever I wrote it was written from the heart, with feeling, and with relatively little time for reflection or composition, so f**k it. As long as it's not the last thing I write in a public place, I'll be alright. I think.

Anyway many, many congratulations to Ritchie & Helena (or Helena and Ritchie as they are in the above photo). May your days be long and your troubles few, your friendship strong and your love stay true, and if things go wrong and the air turns blue, just bite your tongue and have a damn good screw.

E.J.Thribb has got nothing on me.

Greek Night

As regular readers will know, we have a tradition of "safari nights" on our street where we journey from house to house for each course of an n-course meal (depending on the number of houses involved in that particular safari). Each one has a different theme, tonight's being Greek.

As you'll have seen earlier this week, tonight's safari was only organised last Friday, so we've not had long to arrange a costume. I was thwarted at every turn, as I wanted to do something a bit more original than a draped sheet (no offence to draped sheets, or those who wear them!) but every costume I found was either out of stock or not available in my size.

Until I found this. Which gave me the idea I was looking for, and was do-able in the time remaining. Especially since we still had a large cardboard box lying around from the last flat-pack furniture delivery which was the perfect size for the top and bottom plinth.

Cannibalising an old fitted sheet sufficed for the both the column (with Nat's help to spray-on some suitably Doric fluting) and the drapery around the "bust", white body paint turned my exposed body parts to stone and the whole thing was topped off with a "gold leaf" laurel from an online costumier.

Here's the final result.

With a little more time and thought I could probably have made a better job but even so I was quite pleased with it, and the surprise (or even shock in some cases) of the arriving guests was well worth the effort. I chose to stand over in a corner, unmoving, until each group of guests realised it was me.

Walking was somewhat hampered, and sitting impossible, so once everyone had enjoyed the full effect (i.e. shortly after we arrived at the second house) I removed the bottom half of the costume, but remained in "bust mode" for much of the rest of the evening, even though it made negotiating doorways... interesting. Chalk up (haha!) another successful safari night, with buckets of stifado, moussaka and ouzo thrown in. Brilliant.

Statue of liberty

The liberty being our neighbours - Torsten & Keith - who are shortly to depart these shores for a new life in Portugal. The statue being my chosen costume for the forthcoming Greek-themed safari night in honour of their leaving, for which we had less than a week's notice. It's happening on Friday, and I'm trying to pull together a statue costume in time.

Thank God for Internet shopping, rapid order fulfilment, and first class post. My body paint arrived today (successfully tested for wear, smudging, washability and skin reaction) and I'm hopeful that the laurel wreath will arrive tomorrow. The rest is all bodged together from old cardboard boxes, sprayed with B&Q project paint, and an old fitted sheet that was surplus to requirements.

First stage assembly of the top and bottom plinths of a mock-Doric column was completed today. Now I just have to figure out the best way of spray-painting the fluting on the column and I'm all set.

Saddle sore

Well I suppose I should get back to this blogging lark. Trouble is, over the past couple of weeks, there's been a decided shortage of blog fodder and, perhaps more important, enthusiasm. My urge to commit thoughts to the ether tends to come in waves, with an amplitude of about - well - two weeks. I can tune to a different frequency if there's a lot of material about, or if something spurs me to a rant, but otherwise I'll just let it drift.

My main sources of inspiration haven't been of much help during the most recent hiatus. The Large Decorating Project is at the preparation stage, and as it is... Large... this stage is taking a long time. And, being preparation, it doesn't lend itself to much in the way of excitement, visible progress, or anything much worth writing about. My small (but dedicated!) audience wouldn't thank me, I'm sure, for endless posts about sanding, filling, more sanding, priming, and the long and tedious task (which occupied several hours this last weekend) of cleaning the plaster, PVA, and primer splashes off the floor. A task which, with the current state of my knees, I can only attack in sessions of about two hours at a time.

The Main Writing Project is still stalled, waiting for one of my many queries to bear fruit. It's probably about time to send out a fresh crop, and also long past time to pick up another project, but distractions and displacement activities have had the upper hand for months and the notional "garret studio" is starting to look rather cobwebby and abandoned.

Such distractions as there have been, have proved very entertaining. With my birthday imminent, Nikki presented me with the Collector's Edition BluRay disk of Avatar yesterday, which we sat down all together to watch during the afternoon - all 170 extended minutes of it. Fabulous. Saturday night saw us in town (an extremely rare occurrence) to celebrate a friend's birthday in the beautifully salubrious setting of The English Lounge. A perfect choice for a relaxing few pints in the company of friends, some of whom we haven't seen for way too long, and catch up with news.

It's a slight overstatement to say that the past two weeks have been entirely devoid of bloggable stuff, and indeed notes have been taken for future posts which might be coming your way over the next few days, but in the main it is all sanding, filling and painting for the foreseeable, so if you were waiting for nuggets you'll have to wait a while longer I'm afraid. And what's more my enthusiasm for anything in particular is likely to take a hard knock tomorrow, when for the first time in I don't know how long I'll be taking the early road to Slough (a 5am start is traditional, to be sure of getting into the office by about 9) to help out with testing on our current project. I've been lucky this last year or so, to avoid travel. After several years of making the Slough journey up to 3 times a week, followed by a couple of years taking the train to Croydon, I've somehow managed to wangle an entire year of working at home. But as there's no remote access to the test rigs, and there are small pockets of the current system that only I know anything about, my presence has been demanded and I must answer the call. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

Italian Night

The latest safari night on the street kicked off at "new girl" Helen's place, where the antipasti were delightful and the Peroni and wine flowed freely from the very first ring of the doorbell. Yes, it was Italian Night this time round, and having managed to find a stripy shirt, a straw boater, and - courtesy of one of the many local charity shops - a single red curtain suitable for ripping into a rough cravat, sash, and a replacement band for the boater, I'd cobbled together a passable gondolier's outfit.

My imagination is clearly as limited as the majority of the neighbours: I was one of three gondoliers. If you think that's bad you should have counted the number of mafiosi in attendance! But as always, it didn't matter. The costumes are only there to get you into the spirit of the occasion, and there was more than enough spirit to go around.

Lasagne may have been a predictable menu choice, but it's all in the execution and this particular lasagne was murdered with relish by just about everyone. Everyone who had room left after scoffing the pizza and focaccia that followed the antipasti, that is. Thankfully the portions were small enough for me to enjoy a helping of spaghetti and spicy meatballs at the fourth house (add obligatory cod Italian accent when reading "spicy meatballs" of course. Something like this: sPIE-see meat-a-BALL!). By the time we hit the last house I could only just manage a single portion of tiramisu. Followed shortly later by an even smaller scoop of trifle. Not sure how Italian trifle is but by that time it didn't matter.

As always the conversation and the company, rather than the food, drink, or costumes, were the highlights of the evening and even though we were one house down due to illness our sojourn to la bella Italia was a great success and another fine chapter in the annals of neighbourly revelry.

Enthusiasm for safari nights remains undiminished too. At one point, when conversation turned to the topic of the next event, no fewer than six ideas for the theme were suggested. Enough to keep us going for another two years at least.

Silver Light

We attended a silver wedding event this evening for some friends, who also happen to be neighbours. One of the nicest families you could hope to meet, so it was an honour and a privilege to help them celebrate 25 years together, and a laugh to see all the old photos projected on the wall of the function room. That hair! That suit! That moustache! Etc. Well, it was 1985, and the eighties weren't exactly renowned for their fashions.

It occurred to me as we sat at the table and the conversation flowed around and through us, occasionally stopping to pick up some words and move on, like a verbal tram with an unpredictable timetable and a driver who may well have been R.P.McMurphy, that 1985 was also coincidentally the year I got married for the second time. Which means that, had I stuck it out, we too would be celebrating our silver wedding next month. Of course it's also true that, had I stuck it out, I would probably have been driving that tram, assuming I could have escaped the funny farm, so I think it's safe to say things have turned out for the best.

Our hosts being (reasonably) devout, we were "treated" to a blessing from "the father" at one point. Far be it from me to impose my beliefs and prejudices on anyone (although I hear fellow heretics shouting from the back "it never stops them!!"), but I could have happily done without hearing the message that the success of their marriage was actually nothing to do with their own efforts, but largely down to the beneficence of The Lord, who smiled down upon them from on high, probably on account of their having attended His Place of Worship on a regular basis.

Thankfully this drivel didn't go on for too long, as I was on the verge of converting to Dawkinism. I did wonder though, and not for the first time, exactly what credentials one requires to be a priest. Beyond the obvious predilection for... well... you know what I mean. By the look of the guy he must have been priesting for easily as long as our hosts have been married, and it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that he'd been at it twice that long. Yet in all that time he never found the time to actually learn the words of the blessing he delivered to the happy couple. Only a short passage, at most half the length of my introduction to this year's hotpot, which I learned in two weeks and delivered word-perfect on three occasions, and with many fewer polysyllabic utterances, but his years under the cloth had not provided sufficient opportunity to commit the simple homily to memory. He read it, falteringly it has to be said, from The Book, in a bored monotone utterly lacking in charisma or even any apparent interest. Apologies to Woody Allen but it made me think "those that can, do. Those that can't, teach. And those that can't teach, join the church."

Pimp My Hotpot: Final Night & BBQ 2010

A pretty hectic day for me yesterday, as the final night of the Hotpot show clashed with the annual street barbecue. So it was up with the lark to prepare the usual salads (always such a popular item I'd been asked to make the same three for the third year running), cut the new neighbour's grass (she moves in soon and it was looking like a bit of a jungle out there), and pull the garden chairs out from the depths of the shed.

BBQ started around 3pm and for once - unlike the last two years - the day was glorious. We'd had fabulous weather last weekend and the forecast in the early part of the week suggested we were in for a repeat of last year, missing the good weather by a week and being subjected to a downpour. Instead the bad weather slipped back a day and left us smiling under the sun while chomping on our toasties.

I should give the toasties a special mention this year, as it may well be the last year we enjoy them. Torsten & Keeth are set to emigrate to Portugal by the end of the summer, and their special contribution to every year's barbie will be greatly missed. Someone was supposed to watch the assembly of these delights this year so the tradition could be handed on, but no-one turned up and now they might be lost forever. I think I'll be popping down the road sometime soon with paper and pen. A street barbecue without toasties is unthinkable.

At 6.30pm, in the middle of the first quiz, I had to duck out, change into (one of) my stage costume(s) and drive over to the hall in preparation to open the final show. Even though I knew I had that monologue in my head, I didn't want to be blasé about it, and still repeated it to myself a couple of times before taking the stage. It all went very smoothly (although a slightly smaller audience than last night owing to the good weather) and pretty soon I was changing out of my tux into the black jeans and T I've been wearing all week for Beresford & Wallace's interval set.

On balance I think our performance last night was the best of the three. Not surprising, I guess, as it was the one we'd had most practice for, and I think we both (or all three of us if we include our guest artiste Becky Hodges who played a flute accompaniment to More Than Just Your Face) felt totally comfortable with both the material and the performing of it. But although it may have been technically the best performance I didn't enjoy it quite as much, both on account of knowing it was the last one, and because Nikki, Nat & Blythe weren't there as they'd been the night before. We did have a couple of friends in the audience, but it wasn't the same.

Coming off stage around 9pm I grabbed my other costume and headed back to the street BBQ, where the Chocolate Game had just finished and people were once again sitting around chatting. We had a very short gentle shower which caused us to move the chairs into a quadrangle under the gazebo, where we lit candles and enjoyed a couple of rounds of the Story Game (everyone in turn says a sentence to carry the story on) and Mafia (rules too complicated to relate but can be found here for anyone interested - although we didn't include the Nurse role mentioned there.) before moving inside, when the rain became more persistent, for another round of Mafia and more drinking (!)

Shortly after midnight most of the family had had enough so we left the remaining dozen or so revellers to their fate and wandered over the road. I picked up some more beer and headed off to the after-show party (another barbecue!) at Annie's - luckily only a short walk away. The rain had, mercifully, passed off a couple of hours before, leaving the night fresh and warm, and I spent a pleasant couple of hours munching on more BBQ food, sipping on a couple of ales and chatting with fellow members of cast & crew. It was also the first (and probably only) time I got to enjoy the Aftershow Awards ceremony that is a Chorlton Players tradition. Great fun. When I got home shortly after 3 I was more than ready to crash, even though dawn was already faintly visible over the roofs of the houses.

Celebrity Night

The last street safari night we attended was African Night, back in March 2009, which is a long interval. There has been one other in the interim - Cowboy Night - which by all accounts was a great success but which we had to miss on account of being elsewhere. Can't remember now exactly which else. Two of the neighbours took advantage of our absence to make up a cowboy-style "wanted" poster of us, which we thought was pretty cool.

The latest theme under which we intended to trail from house to house stuffing our faces with good food and various alcoholic beverages was Celebrity Night. We didn't have an awful lot of notice for this, or a really clear idea of what it meant, so with that feeble excuse most of us didn't make much of an effort. In a cop-out reminiscent of our very first safari outing (Mexican Night) I decided to be Jarvis Cocker on account of him normally wearing jeans and a tee, and me normally wearing jeans and a tee. Natalie cradled a bottle of port on one arm, hung onto me with the other arm and thus went as Natalie Port-Man, and Nikki didn't bother adopting a persona at all. Only Blythe gave it any thought and cobbled together a passable impression of Michael Jackson (he's dead you know), which almost saved our credibility in the face of some really good costumes from the rest of the neighbours.

We had Ozzy, Amy, Cheryl (and Ashley), Wally (as in, where's Wally?), Gaga, James Bond, Winnie (Churchill, not the Pooh), Mrs Q and Posh, Brian May and Minnie Mouse.

Celebrity food gave everyone pause. We opted for Sausage Surprise (from EastEnders) and I made a Red Pearl cocktail. We also enjoyed some excellent tapas, pâté & dips, lasagne, a chocolate fountain and an excellent cheeseboard. Most of the others went for some form of sparkling wine as the celebrity drink du jour.

Not such a late night as has been the norm, but all in all another successful safari to add to the archives.

Coffee and Cake

Neighbour's birthday today and in response to their e-card we received a sunny "we've got coffee and cake - see you later?" email which sounded like a good way to pass an hour or so on a cold winter's Sunday.

We arrived to an impromptu gathering of select members of the street, all enjoying coffee from a continuously-replenished cafetiere and cake from a pair of groaning plates, one holding wonderfully moist carrot and walnut and the other a mouth-watering concoction involving apple and baked custard.

Yum! No wonder we love living round here! Sadly, this time next year the guys will probably be settling in to their new home in Portugal, so this spur-of-the-moment mini party could be the last of its kind.

Mullington Crescent

Our fourth mulled wine evening was a smaller affair than in previous years. We never ask for an RSVP, but this time round a majority of the houses on the street weren't represented. Just one of those things I guess. It's a busy time of year and folk have many calls on their time.

Still, it was nice that word got back to us via various roundabout routes that those who did attend enjoyed themselves. We certainly did. It's not really a lot of effort to mull a few pints of wine and put a small selection of nibbles into well-distributed dishes. And at least "small and intimate" meant we got to bed at a reasonable hour, rather than the 3am finishes which have been the norm in the past.

BBQ 2009

Last year we missed the good barbecuing weather by a day. This year we missed it by an entire week. Yes last Saturday, as my UK-based readers will fondly recall, was a blisteringly hot and sunny 27° - perfect weather for a BBQ, garden games and sitting under the shade of a gazebo sipping Pimms, or your tipple of choice. Yesterday the only outdoor tippling was provided by the iron-grey clouds blanketing the city, which proceeded to dump their load on us from early morning until mid-afternoon.

Hardly the stuff to inspire thoughts of garden gallivanting, or to enthuse the weary salad-maker (me) as he chops his parsley and soaks his bulgur wheat for the tabouleh, or empties tins of assorted beans into a large stainless-steel bowl for the three-bean salad, especially when he'd been up since 5.30am to boil the potatoes and eggs for a classic potato salad.

Still, the late afternoon forecast was for the weather to dry up between 2-3pm and remain dry for the rest of the evening, so at least the day wasn't set to be a complete wash-out even if it didn't match the gloriousness of the previous weekend. Having sussed the weather, it was with some dismay we learned via neighbourhood runner that the BBQ - its early stages anyway - had been forcibly decamped to the local club for the hours of 3-6pm.

Our forlorn troop of salads wended its way down the road and around the corner shortly after 3pm to join the other cold food on a series of low tables, to be picked over while the kids were entertained with various games of musical chairs, bumps and egg & spoon races (Health-and-Safety-mandated plastic eggs, naturally).

After this brief exile we marched the remaining salads, quiches and trifles back down the road to their rightful home, alongside the soon-to-be grilled burgers, sausages, toasties, kebabs and an assortment of breads. At the urging of several neighbours I once again performed my erection in the garden - an impressive affair that can easily shelter 20 people - while other assorted male partners looked on with envy from their more traditional positions manning the barbecues.

It wasn't long before I'd put myself on the outside of three hot dogs, a burger, two toasties and two portions of tiramisu, at which point I realised I was almost incapable of sitting down so I'd better stop. Luckily it was time for the quiz, a marginally easier version of last year's organised into 26 questions whose answers began with successive letters of the alphabet. Our team - named Royal Jerseys in honour of the potato salad and other potato-related delights - won with 17/26. It would have been 18 if I'd been able to remember the Nikkei in time. Why is it when you need Nikkei all you can think of is Hang Seng?

All this tongue-in-cheek hilarity belies the fact that I was totally not in the mood for a social event yesterday. In fact all of us agreed we'd far rather be sat cosily in front of a good film than trying to find the other person in the room going "oink" (the Animal Game) or trying to pick up a rapidly-diminishing cereal carton using only our teeth, and without touching the floor with any part of our bodies other than feet (the Box Game). Looking on the bright side, we did manage to avoid any hint of Choo-Choo.

So for the second year running, we didn't stay until 3am. We didn't even stay until midnight. We left as soon as the Box Game had run its course (with five limber contortionists attempting to pick up a flat piece of cardboard from the floor), thereby relieving the remaining party-goers of our bah humbugnesses.

African Night

Amazingly it's been more than a year since our last "safari" night on the street - Bollywood night - but there are good reasons for that. Anyway, despite agreeing to organise the next one, and originally saying it would be Greek night, we decided in the end that there would be more room for culinary manoeuvre if we chose the entire African continent as a theme, and so African Night was born.

Even though there are umpteen African countries to choose from, costumes displayed a marked lack of imagination, with pith helmets and khakis being the norm for the chaps while a variety of animal attire (zebras and large cats mainly) seemed de rigeur for the chapesses. One or two enterprising souls had gone for some kind of colourful tent, but there was nothing approaching the splendour of the Indian garb from last time.

We began our safari across the road with some delicious piri-piri chicken, falafel, some kind of cured meat, and a huge pile of tuna samosas, along with "Safari" cider. Back to our side but further down for a selection of mezzes and a delicious orangey drink concoction whose name escapes me, before moving on to ours for bobotie and African Violets. As soon as we decided the theme for tonight, I knew I'd be cooking bobotie. I haven't had it for 25+ years but back then it was an old favourite. I had thought it originated in Kenya, but that's just where the person who introduced ME to it came from. A quick Google for the recipe revealed it to be a traditional South African dish (and before that, Dutch), which gave me a brief pause as one of our neighbours hails from SA and I knew I'd be feeding it to an expert.

In the end, I found three recipes, so I based the dish on this one, but added in little somethings from the other two as well as putting my own slant on it. I also made it with Quorn mince rather than beef, as we have at least two vegetarians on the street. The end result looked exactly as I remember it, and was greeted with much praise, especially from Keith, who declared it to be "just right." For me though, the highlight of our stop was the African Violet.

It's becoming something of a tradition on safari nights to have cocktails at our place, so I was delighted to find this recipe for a stunning-looking shot, comprising layered white crème de cacao liqueur, blue curaçao, and whisky. A little tricky to make - I cocked the first one up royally and just had to dispose of it in the only way possible - but once I'd had a bit of practice and steadied my hand, the layering turned out just right. I'd slipped home half-an-hour before the guests were due to give me chance to add the eggy topping to the bobotie and prepare a dozen African Violets, which went down really well. I ended up making another dozen!

Then it was on to #19, where the lads had made a variety of deliciously spicy stuffings for some traditional deep-fried dumplings, #16 where we were treated to dessert - a choice of tropical fruits, or bananas with toffee crunch sauce, or marvel cake (or something) which was spongy, treacly goodness in a small package. Fab! By this time, of course, we were all creaking at the seams, so we were glad our organisation had decided to have food at only 5 houses. The last stop was for drinks only, but we did end up staying until 4am!

Tis the season to be merry - #2

Nikki's works' do migrated, as it does, to a different hotel this year, only this time to one we'd used before, three years ago: the Worsley Marriott. We were quite happy with this, as it's barely a 20-minute drive from home and we remembered how good the breakfasts are there. A strange thing to concentrate on when you're supposedly going there for a Christmas do, you might think, and I couldn't possibly comment. Except to say that Christmas dos are all too often much of a muchness, but a good breakfast is beyond price.

Anyway we had a relaxed start to the day - two pots of coffee and lots of 'puter time - and took a leisurely drive over there after a late breakfast, arriving around 3pm, checking in and making our way to the Chimney Bar.

Since our last visit the rooms have all been refurbished and are now very comfortably appointed, with a massive bed, good choice of TV channels and a well-equipped bathroom. Nice touch that the room's lobby had a motion-activated light too, which came on as soon as we opened the door and remained on long enough to find the other light switches.

A couple of Nikki's colleagues were already waiting for us in the bar so we treated ourselves to a sandwich lunch and a couple of beers, soaking up the atmosphere and generally relaxing. Soon it was time to return to the room and put on our posh duds, joining the rest of the company for a pre-dinner drink before walking through to the main restaurant area for dinner.

It's impressive how a hotel restaurant can serve up several hundred meals and not only have them all still hot when they reach the table, but also looking appealing and appetising. It's not always the case, but the Marriott did us proud. Tomato soup with roasted red pepper, turkey dinner with all the usual trimmings, and Christmas pud in brandy sauce for me, while Nikki had the same, but branched out to the chocolate mousse for dessert. If I was being uber-picky I'd say the roast potatoes were a bit on the hard side (Nikki reckoned they'd been roasted in advance and then microwaved too long), but other than that in mass catering terms the meal was very nice.

We spent a frustrating couple of hours trying to dodge the result of the X Factor final - the DJ insisting that he would bring us news as soon as he got it! Eek! - before retiring to bed at a far too sensible 11.30pm. Don't know whether the credit crunch is biting, or there's been a general realisation that it's crazy to stay up until the small hours getting drunk at hotel bar prices, but the party area was distinctly less busy when we went to bed than in previous years.

Having retired early and only consumed 4 or 5 drinks each, we were (as usual) awake long before dawn, and hence the first to arrive for breakfast almost on the dot of 7am. The breakfast staff concealed their surprise very well at seeing someone awake at that hour after a Christmas party, and the egg chef cooked me up two perfect fried eggs to go with the excellent sausage, hash browns, beans, fried slice, juice, coffee and toast, after which we checked out and arrived back home around quarter to nine! Very civilised and a perfect time to make another pot of coffee and settle back to watch our unspoiled recording of the X Factor. It was a close call, but we made it!

Tis the season to be merry - #1

No, I didn't mean jolly. Although I started off jolly as I left to drive into town yesterday morning just before lunch to meet up with an old team of mine for the first of several Christmas "dos", the last one of which won't take place until January 28th. Don't ask.

I had intended to catch the bus, thereby giving myself maximum flexibility to get bladdered or not, as the fancy took me, and depending on how the party panned out. You know how it is. Sometimes the sparks fly and you're really enjoying the mood, other times you can't wait to get home. A combination of another bitterly cold day and the probability of rain made me realise (a) I didn't really fancy the 20-minute walk from Piccadilly and (b) I wasn't really that bothered about having a lot to drink. That, and the fact that the restaurant I was heading for is surrounded by a multi-storey car park, meant the car was the obvious option.

This particular do was the "VME" Christmas party, so named because it's organised by, and ostensibly for, those people who are still working on VME. Many years ago, and for many years, I was one of those people. I still know a lot of them quite well, but more to the point their senior PA is also the lady who ran our office when 40 of us, followed shortly by another 40, branched out into the scary new world of Microsoft technologies a little over 12 years ago. That team is no longer together either, but since many of us came originally from the VME team, we share a history, and therefore a Christmas do. For most of us it's the only day of the year when we get together, because the majority of the original members (of either team) have moved to other companies, other parts of the same company, or retired, and even those who now work in the same building don't see each other very often owing to the overly paranoid security locks on all the internal doors, which admit staff only to the floor for their own department.

Today's meal took place at the modestly named "Glamorous" on Oldham Road, an establishment which I had visited on a couple of previous occasions and which can usually be guaranteed to provide mass catering on a huge scale and at extremely high quality.

Has it changed hands I wonder? Or chefs? Or is the credit crunch biting? I certainly don't remember the Christmas meal being this piss-poor in previous years. Two small scoops of chicken and sweetcorn soup, followed by some sad looking dim sum (paper wrapped prawns, spring rolls and ribs). OK, the ribs were excellent, but the rest didn't do much for me. Little did I know it was about to get worse.

Aromatic crispy duck was optional on the menu at an additional charge of £3.50, and owing to having a minimum requirement of two diners (per table), it had been left to us on the day to organise. Regular readers will know I'm an ardent lover of crispy duck. I'd be happy if that was the ONLY thing on the menu. So I was fortunate - I thought - to find four other duckophiles on my table. So we coughed up our £19.30 (10% service charge mandatory) and awaited our pancakes. 13 sad, cold, dry little pancakes between 5 of us. Two tiny plates of shredded leek and cucumber, and less than half a duck. Clearly, having left the ordering until the day, the restaurant had been caught on the hop by the popularity and run out. Instead of coming clean and saying "we've run out, sorry" they decided to fleece us of our £3.50s and spread what they had between all of us.

The mains were a disappointment too. No large, steaming bowl of rice for each table. No. A cold plate, with a handful of tepid rice (which was cold by the time the food was served).

That's another place to strike off my list of acceptable eateries at Christmas. But! All was not lost, for it's a truism that if the only thing you're going to a Christmas do for is the food, you're bound to be disappointed. The company is the thing! The craic! And boy, did we have some craic on our table.

After lunch we decanted to the Crown & Kettle for a pint. No offence, but what a dismal little hole this is. Sadly, what few sparks were flying at this party were extinguished as soon as we set foot through its dingy door onto its bare, dirty floorboards. I cracked an inward smile at the irony of the drink I ordered - a pint of Flat Cap - quaffed it as quickly as I could and beat a hasty retreat. Sincere apologies to those luvverly people I was sharing space with. Had the food been better, the watering hole more comfortable, and the weather warm enough to walk, I would have loved to stay longer. Next year, maybe?

Mulled but not dulled

Our traditional mulled wine party was graced with family this year, as not only my elder daughter but also my cousin and her husband came over for the occasion.

So we had a kind of ante-party from about 5pm onwards, with a lot of delightful chat, catching up, and few sandwiches and nibbles before I set about mulling the wine shortly after 7pm. Things were slightly more confused than usual, since over the years we have gradually accumulated three varieties of mulling spices, each with their own discrete instructions. The first, and the one we've used in each of the last two years, requires a bottle of wine to half a bottle of water (only we use three bottles of wine to get the party started, naturally, and top up throughout the evening as the guests arrive with another bottle or eight).

The second box of spices, which we expected to have to break into this year, suggests a bottle of wine to a third of a bottle of water (75/25cl). And finally the box which we procured last year from the Northwest Fine Food Festival and are not expecting to have to use until next year, suggests using no water whatever.

Now I'm in the habit of refilling everyone's cup/mug/glass as soon as they become empty, so I opted for the first (i.e. the tried and trusted) recipe. I like to see my guests merry, but I don't want to impose a raging red-wine headache on anyone!

As last year, the first guests arrived at 8.10, and a handful of others drifted in between then and 9.30, by which time I was beginning to feel a little disappointed at the turnout. We'd had notice of no-shows from two couples, and fully expected one other couple to turn up in halves, as they have very young children to look after, but as for the rest...? I'd almost decided it wasn't worth lighting the oven - there was no way we could get through 100 hot Indian party nibbles with the numbers we'd had up to then - when virtually the whole of the rest of the street turned up in the space of 15 minutes.

Just goes to show you never need to worry about parties. They always turn out alright. Especially round here, where mulled wine evening is a well-established part of the social calendar.

Just one further thing to mention. I was discussing the party earlier this evening with a friend, explaining how I'd kept the wine flowing and we'd all had a great time chilling out, chatting, exchanging anecdotes and just generally enjoying the ambience and the company of good friends. She said: "That sounds sooooo John Beresford!" And you know what? She's right. I *do* like to be the enabler of good times for people I love.

A hive of activity

It's amazing what you can get done when there's a party in the offing.

We're holding our annual mulled wine evening tonight, so we've been busy since about 8am this morning:

• putting the finishing touches to the tree (i.e. hanging the red and gold beads, setting the timer, and fixing the skirt)
• erecting the small sparkly fibre-optic tree in the lounge
• boiling the eggs for sandwiches
• vacuuming absolutely everywhere
• opening up the conservatory, turning up its radiators and removing the dead flies
  
• preparing the mulling equipment
• cleaning absolutely everywhere that hasn't been vacuumed
• hanging the last few decorations
• fetching an uplighter so those in the conservatory can see each other
• fixing a hook for the towel in the downstairs cloakroom
• hanging the windchime (that's been sitting in a bag in the front porch for two years)
• putting up the Christmas cards (two so far)
• refilling all the tea-light holders
• plumping cushions
• generally tidying up and putting away of boxes
  

Four-and-a-half hours later and there's almost nothing left to do. Except have a shower.

And make the sandwiches.

And mull the wine (but that comes later).

Now we are 50

Yesterday we celebrated the 50th birthday of the last of my mates to attain that age of distinction, at his parents' place somewhere in the quiet countryside of South Notts. A garden filled with gazebos, chairs, tables, food, games, fun, family, but most of all friends and friendship.

You have to love the Gee family. Mum and Dad are an oasis of elegant refinement and good manners in a world increasingly full of yobbishness and selfish behaviour. A reminder of how good things were in a bygone age where everyone was civil to each other, offered a helping hand and a kind word, and did their bit for the community. Their good example is carried like a torch by their offspring, who each strive in their own way to increase the joy and fun of life without being at all pious or po-faced. Just a brilliant crowd who love a laugh, and love to share that laughter.

And laugh we did. Particularly at the gunga-sized version of Jenga, which was played almost non-stop all afternoon by various groups varying in age from single figures to us lot as seen here, all stood round examining it with knowledgeable looks as if we're a bunch of architects examining Westminster Abbey.

The buffet was excellent and the afternoon passed remarkably quickly, punctuated by more games of Jenga and watching Phil open his pressies, many of which had been selected for their compliance with a "50" theme. Or to complement his forthcoming holiday. You know the kind of thing that's just right for someone approaching his second childhood: arm bands for swimming; a bucket and spade; peashooters and catapults.

Plans to decamp to the pub had been shelved in favour of staying in the garden and ordering in fish & chips, which duly arrived around 7pm in three enormous boxes. I've never eaten F&C with 40 people before, but it was a fine experience and one I'd repeat at any time!

As the sunset and the chill factor of the evening increased, a garden heater was brought out and set up under the largest gazebo. Nobody wanted the day to end, but inevitably it did, as taxis were ordered and goodbyes were said by increasing numbers of guests. We held out as long as we could, but the end the cold and the time got to us and we accepted the offer of a lift in one of the taxis heading our way. A brilliant day all round, but most of all because it's finally put an end to Phil's ability to take the piss out of our advanced ages. Now, we are 50!

BBQ 2008

Sure enough, the weather god pissed on us today. If we'd held the barbie yesterday, as normal, we'd have enjoyed glorious sunshine with enough fluffy white cloud cover to avoid any serious sunburn. Today, the only thing we were in danger of was rust.

As a result of the weather only around half as many people turned up, so the food was quite heavily over-catered. And, ironically, none of it was barbecued. Thank heavens for our hostess's large oven. At least the kids had their hot dogs, so all was right with their world.

The quiz quizzed and the rain passed over just in time for a half-hearted three-legged race, but the day had a dampness to it that went beyond the rain. Tomorrow being a work day, many people started drifting away around 8pm, and as usual once a party loses its critical mass it turns into just another bunch of people sitting around drinking.

Even the karaoke wasn't up to much this year. Last year we were singing until 3am. Today, with only two-and-a-half good singers and no-one else much interested, we limped along with it for a desultory hour or so and then gave it up.

The end of an era? I don't think so. We've decided to "book" the barbecue weekend in advance next year so everyone can plan around it, and it'll be back to its normal Saturday slot.

Going for a croak

We'd been invited to a rather original party this evening - karaoke and pancakes. Whoever dreamt that up needs a medal. Combining two of my favourite things with a little wine and good company was bound to be a great evening.

It was a small but select do, and all the better for that. The pancakes, spread as they were with the traditional lemon and sugar and hence reminiscent of my childhood, were superb and seemed to get better throughout the evening (even though I wasn't drinking much, having driven to the party) but the highlight of the evening as always was the karaoke. Brilliant. If I were to have my time over again I'd move heaven and earth to be a professional singer. Just need to sort a few of those cdg files out, eh Annie? One of them was reminiscent of the karaoke we did in Fuertenventura one year. If you hadn't known the words to the song you would have been knackered, as they were appearing on screen a fraction of a second after they needed to be sung. Doh!