Bloody hell.
Darlings, in many of our conversations I talk about what we MUST do.
“Do this darlings, bloody do this and that and don’t forget this and what about that other thing, here darlings smoke this and drink that and oh look there’s a cat on your back” and on and on bloody ad bloody infinitum. But darlings, this past week I have been thinking very little about the myriad of things that we bloody must NEVER do my darlings, never! And what brought on this meaningless drivel most interesting insight? Why the monumentally poor decision of honour of hosting the first Dinner for Six of course!
Mummy with her breasts and her James. Yes darlings.
Let’s start at the very middle darlings, the very beginning makes me nervous, reminds me of my real age vast experience and in any case I’ve run out of sedatives energy. You MUST NOT call the party Dinner for 6, set the table for six, arrange glasses for six, cook Gazpacho and Cheddar Paprika Cheese Straws for starters, Chicken Kiev on Asparagus and Tomato Jus for mains and Strawberry Drop Scones and Cream for dessert for six, and then invite seven. You MUST NOT leave preparations to the last minute. You MUST NOT meet your guests at the door with a toilet brush behind one ear, a hand up a chicken’s bum and a wild look of terror on your face, drunk.
The La Capra selection of wine for the evening. The real guests of this whole Dinner Debarcle. The ones who caused all the nonsense.
You MUST NOT at, any point, consider inviting anyone even mildly interesting or remotely attractive. Specifically if you were too drunk busy to prep most of the courses the night before. The reason being my darlings, is that the funnier, smarter or sexier they are, the more time you’re going to spend sitting outside smoking a piece of your own hair, bouncing on someone’s knee with a bottle of KWV Orchestra pressed to your bosom like your first born.
CTG and S1mz, being smart, funny, interesting and attractive, causing Frances to smoke her hair outside.
The KWV Mentors range. They brought dignity to the gathering. And they took ours.
You MUST NOT pretend that anything is serious. You MUST NOT have real, meaningful conversations. You MUST NOT engage with anyone on any kind of authentic level. This real waste of time will only result in quiet, sophisticated exchanges and delicate phrasing and things like people’s needs and feelings and consideration and other boring fuckwittage rewarding experiences that may or may not cause the host of Dinner for 75 to pass out face forward into the wine spittoon.
Frances puts on a brave face for you darlings while CTG demonstrates how she 'has Frances's back'.
You MUST NOT ever let a man through the front door carrying a bottle of 30 year old Famous Grouse. This is non-negotiable. Regardless of how innocent this man looks, if he is in the company of the Grouse you must barricade yourself inside and switch off all the lights so that he cannot see you are at home. But should you make the fatal error of allowing him entrance, do not be surprised if you find yourself, a good EIGHT HOURS LATER, propped up at the dining room table like the cadaver in all the Weekend at Bernie’s films, both elbows in a puddle of Gazpacho, rolling tea bags for cigarettes and speaking like Groucho Marx.
Mains: Milla 'Chicken Kiev' Jovovich on asparagus, darlings.
You MUST NEVER do anything that involves any of the above on a weeknight. HAH! You think you know that? You think, “Frances is a bloody fool darling for having Dinner for Six Hundred Thousand on a Thursday night, I on the other hand darling would never do such a thing darling me? Never. Me? Never. Me? Never. Me….” Sorry darlings, got a little carried away – but you’re thinking it aren’t you? You bastards clever little things.
Do you like mummy's knife darling's?
Well even if you aren’t, what you MUST NOT DO is make all of the above mistakes, because if you do, I can guarantee you will find yourself walking the streets of Cape Town in the orange smoggy light of dawn like a lone survivor of the Rage Virus, bare, bloodied feet stumbling, Ferragamo dress stained red with La Capra and feathered with tobacco, confused, scared and alone, plaintively asking for directions back to Tamborskloof and normality, all the while a lone Cheddar and Paprika straw clings to the back of your 100% wool Gerard Darel pea coat – a tacit reminder of a once civilized world.
It sounds like a GREAT deal of fun doesn’t it? But after the merriment of trawling the streets like a gin-soaked loony has passed, you have to come home and …
WASH UP.
Tonight darlings, I ask you all very graciously to fuck off and leave me alone.
I’m doing Wine for One.
A shadow of the foodie formerly known as Frances
xxx
