Organising a dinner Part I

Ok, so the big news are taking a bit longer than I expected. But we're getting there, believe me. When? Provisional date is May 15th (if the force is with us). Start the countdown. until then, I'll tell of what happened to me two nights ago.

I have recently decided to invite some girls over at my place for dinner. I did this after an intense feeling of exhaustion which resulted by cocktailing some heavy days of work with nights out at the pubs (in other words, cocktailing them with cocktails). I thought that a quiet night in would make for an opportunity to relax and recharge. I also assumed that this would be a social gathering rather easy to organise and execute. Never have I been so sorely mistaken! Putting together a dinner with the girls turned out to be so hard that if they used it in the army as an entry test to become a soldier the world would be obliged to revert to pacifism out of simple lack of troops.

I meet two girls at work today and I tell them, 'Shall we have dinner together tonight?' They ponder and seem to think it's a good idea; however, they have to consult their housemates, see what's going on and all the usual yadda yadda. So far so good - I'm not Prince Richard so it's not like I expect a shot-in-granite 'yes' from the moment I open my mouth. I tell them I'm bound to be free tonight (because if I go out one more time I'm going to have a face like a fucking murena tomorrow, seriously, there's a limit even to how much you can go out), so if they fancy having a plate at mine's, then they can send me a text. Otherwise, I'll just chill out on my own.

'However,' I am quick to stipulate, 'if you do come, let's make it an early one. I've got to wake up at seven tomorrow, so let's eat around eight so that we can be in bed by ten, ok?' They earnestly agree, and in fact add that they were about to suggest that themselves.

6:25 pm. I am walking home and I receive a text. One of the girls lets me know that they're all going into town to have something at a McDonalds, then they'll be off home. She invites me to join them. I invite her to kiss my ass: the idea of going to town is looking as attractive as Queen Victoria's asshole when she's on her death-bed and doing that for a meal at a McDonalds of all places is so stupid it wouldn't pass the shit-test for a con on Peter Griffin. So I politely decline the invitation. However I compound that by saying that if they pass by my place when they get home, I'll offer them a mug of hot chocolate before they go to sleep.

7:20 pm. I am home and I have taken the meat out from the freezer. I am as hungry as a pack of Bavarian wolves. I am about to tear open the plastic over the meat when I recall that I've only heard back from one of the two girls, and she had not specified whether the other had joined her group of McDonalds adventurers. So I call girl number two - I do this almost distractedly, as though it were a matter of no consequence.

'Hi there, are we still having dinner together tonight?'

Oh yes yes yes yes abso-fucking-lutely she says, to put it succinctly though not quite in her own terms. 'I'll be at the college by eight,' she tells me.

At eight. Forty minutes of wait is not exactly ideal for my cavernous stomach, but I decide the company is worth the wait. She has a friend with her and I tell her she can bring her along if she so wishes; she says she will, so that'll make three of us.

8:00 pm. The silence.

8:12 pm. Hello darling, where are you? 'I am on my way,' she tells me, and furthers this by saying that I should meet her at the reception at 8:30. (Fuck).

8:30 pm. I am standing at the reception. It is a catacomb for all the activity that there is in here. The only sign of life is given by three Dutch girls who are sitting on the floor with laptops and speaking in that absolutely incomprehensible language of theirs. They vaguely remind me of three hens clucking in a sty at three times the normal volume. A background of the most pleasant nature, let me tell you.

8:35 pm. WELL? 'Oh, I'm already at the college. I'm at a friends' place in room 102. I'll be there immediately.' She hangs up after that, so I decide to wait for her over there.

Now, there are more or less sixty metres from her block to the reception, seventy-five if you include the staircase. It takes approximately ninety seconds to walk it, even if you're on crutches or if you're carrying dynamite.

So how the fuck in hell she managed to take twelve minutes from the door of her room to the reception is something beyond all my powers of cognition. Seriously, what is there to do outside of picking up her coat and maybe locking the door? Ok, there's saying good-bye to her friend, but she's off to the reception, not to fucking Tibet. She'll see her tomorrow, so the ceremonies in theory should have been limited.

I do meet her in the reception eventually, but I'm running out of space! Part II of this stuff up in two days, ciao!