We're glad the week is over

'I have had 1,783 parties at home', said the author

My wife’s birthday coincided with the World Cup semi-finals between India and New Zealand, and like the match-that-never-was, it didn’t go well. She rang up her friends to ask them over, but the invitations were declined by their spouses who wanted to watch the cricket match in the comfort of their own homes. That laugh was on them at any rate because the rain washed out the match, so all they could do was watch old re-runs while eating whatever they could lay their hands on in their kitchen when they might have had party food. 

Those who did agree to come were the has-beens, low down the pecking order, whose names are forever being removed from the guest list. The result was a mixed bunch with too little in common, the kind that send ‘thank you’ texts the following day, implying they would like to be invited again, which was the reason my wife and I had been in a state of sulky non-communication in the first place. My wife makes one list of people we would like to invite home, but refers to another completely different one when she gets down to making the calls. She does the same thing with the menu, so we agree on one bill of fare, she gives the staff quite another list, and shops for ingredients for something else altogether. I won’t go so far as to say our parties are a matter of hit and miss, but they are always a surprise—sometimes even for her. 

These days she tells me to keep my nose out of all such affairs. “I have had 1,783 parties at home,” she told me the last time I suggested tweaking the menu a bit to make allowance for diners with less adventurous palates. I pointed out that experience does not parallel wisdom, else she would not have chilled bottles of water thinking they were bottles of wine. What I should have done instead is remind myself that speaking the inviolable truth can be injurious to one’s health. 

For two days before the party my wife did not speak to me at all (which is a mixed blessing), and for two days thereafter she has not ceased speaking at all (which is a form of torture). On the day of the party she insisted on my picking out her clothes, then chose to wear something else altogether. She asked me to select a pair of heels — so she could reject it. We repeated this with picks for her purse, jewellery and wristwatch, so by the time the guests began to arrive, my morale was at an all-time low. I spent the evening lurking behind the bar and the only person who did not endorse my services as a bartender was my wife. 

So, the party. As mixed a bunch of people as should never be together. Ditto main course dishes that failed to communicate with each other. Eleven spilled drinks. Five cakes. Gravy dripped on her favourite dining table cloth (the perpetrator hasn’t been identified). Seven soiled napkins (in my wife’s universe, napkins are not meant to be used ever). Too many guests who ate and left too quickly after. Too much leftover. The cricket match the following evening didn’t go well either. We’re both glad the week is over.