Kishore Singh: The nitty-gritty of kitty parties

The first thing my wife did when we moved into a new neighbourhood was to accost anyone out for a walk to introduce herself. As a result, before we'd even settled in, she found herself a fully paid-up member of that capital institution, the gender discriminating kitty party. Having joined several at once, I caught snippets of their organisational and social networking skills every time it was occasion for another tuck-in at the latest diner in town. Snobbish restaurants don't like large groups of lunching ladies but they can't afford to turn away their business either, so managers maximise damage control by ensuring there's never more than one kitty group in the house, and that it is tucked as far away as a boisterous, demanding group of ladies will allow. Hard negotiation is expected to ensure a more prominent table - Arvind Kejriwal may find the graft in booking a reservation far exceeds the sum of the bill - and investigative talent is required to find out which kitty group has booked the restaurant ahead of yours. Woe betide the member who's hosting the lunch if she's put the group in a queue behind a competing kitty instead of up ahead. What's the fun in slurping your soup that some auntyji has already pronounced unworthy of her favour?
 

Since my wife is naturally nosey and has friends in "high" places, she soon became an asset for these girl gangs, but none of us had counted on one of the memberships being an "at home" affair. This week it was her turn to host the strictly "two sweets, two salties" high tea, but it was anything if modest. If the others vied to pass off boulangerie- or delicatessen-bought treats as homemade with the proviso that they wouldn't be anything like those served by Mrs Sharma, or Shalinji, or Ma Mukherjee, my wife hired a cook for the exercise, but we're getting ahead of ourselves.

For the high drama wasn't only about those appetisers but getting the house ready for the event. Since we'd only recently moved in, I thought we checked most criteria of the well-kept home, but apparently it didn't pass the "kit-tea" test. So here's what my wife did - besides polishing and scrubbing up at a parlour next door - she hired a chef to create a degustation menu of samplers as her "simple" offering. She also ordered a new fridge, decided the carpets needed a change, asked a party planner to do the flowers, hired a white-glove waiter service, and would have reupholstered the sofas but for a shortage of time.

Here's what the children, who weren't invited, did. My son locked his room and moved into a friend's house a few days prior to the kitty preparations to stay out of the way of all commotion. My daughter took the dog to a spa to have him powdered and coiffed, his coat shampooed, blow-dried and brushed, his paws pedicured, and even though it was no longer winter, he got himself a spanking new wardrobe. And on the off chance that the kitty coterie might think to sneak into her room to check her shoe closet, she ordered herself new heels to meet the approval of the strictest fashionistas amid them.

As for me, I was dispensed with early in the morning, all traces of my presence erased. "The kitty ladies don't like men," my wife explained - even though, like me, they were paying for the pleasure of the women to party together.