There was very little planned for the Bank Holiday weekend. I had been invited to a friend's house for a small "party" to celebrate his nephew's and niece's 18th and 21st birthdays on Friday. They're from out of town, and were coming to London with their friends for their first big night out in the city, and we were all going to celebrate with them at their uncles' before they went out. On Saturday, the only commitment I had was to go and see the Mat Collishaw exhibition at Haunch of Venison - which we'd already tried to do last week but didn't manage to as we had arrived two minutes after closing time. (When we did get there the second time, the gallery was closed for the holiday, so we never got to see the show in the end, which was a bother!)
Anyway, it all took off pretty smoothly. I left the office with that kick in my walk brought about by the knowledge that this was going to be a three-day weekend - our last one for the year, alas. Rather than go home, change and do all that running around town, I had arranged to head straight to my friend's flat in Rotherite - which actually sounds a lot further out than it is - for the "party" and take an overnight bag to sleep there if I felt like it - you know, just in case things got a bit out of hand. We were, after all, partying with "kids".
I realised things wouldn't quite go that way when I arrived to find that the parents had come down to join the birthday celebrations. They were funding the night, so they must have wanted to feel that they had contributed to it in more ways than just dipping their hands in their pockets. Unfortunately, their idea of getting involved was not quite what we had in mind. The mother - who was not really that much older than myself - spent the whole evening imposing herself on anyone she could corner and proceed to inform him or her about how much her children were dependent on her, and how useless they were without her. "Can you believe my son can't even tell his left from his right?" she repeated over and over again to me at one point, a few glasses of champagne having had a bit of an effect on her. I tried to tell her that I don't think there's anything wrong with that and that even I, sometimes, had problems with directions, especially in moments of panic, but she wasn't having any of it - in fact, I doubt if she was even listening to what I had to say!
"I'm not staying here for this," said another female friend invited to the celebrations about half an hour later. "She's crazy! I've just had her poking her finger into my chest saying 'You don't know what it's like because you don't have children," It's true, I had actually seen the mother cornering my friend - an ex-party girl now approaching middle-age, who really doesn't need reminding that she doesn't have anyone in her life but her dog - and thought of intervening. In fact, I think I was heading in that direction when the father stopped me to ask if I'd seen the chocolate fountain - his main contribution to the evening. "Ehrm, no," I lied, "I'm not a big fan of chocolate." The truth is, I'd seen it in the kitchen and the smell of cheap chocolate was so bad that I had to leave the room.
As the time for the kids to go out approached, the mother got more and more hysterical. "Four young girls dressed like that are asking for trouble," she said to us, like we had never left the house in our lives. "Little does she know," chuckled my girlfriend when she said that, "how much fun those girls are going to have!"
In the end, we couldn't take it anymore. My girlfriend was suddenly very tired, and I was suddenly getting the beginnings of a headache ("It must have been the smell of the chocolate," I lied). We asked the girls if we could join them in the car when it arrived to take them to Shoreditch. "Of course," they said, realising how desperate we were to get out of this situation. We were out of there like a shot at the first mention of a taxi arriving.
Once in the car, the girls really came into action: Make-up was reapplied, skirts were shortened and cleavages emphasised. The shy, retiring kids we had met inside were instantly transformed into excited girls, eyes wide open by the thought of a night on the town. "I'm switching my mobile off," said the birthday girl, "my mother's bound to try and call me a million times."
During my morning-after phone call to my friend who threw the party, I was informed that the girls had returned at 5 a.m., drunk and disorderly as was to be expected. The mother had, as predicted, kept trying to find any excuse to call the kids and find out what they were up to. Luckily he kept topping up her champagne glass, so by the stroke of midnight, she had already been taken to bed.
Anyway, it all took off pretty smoothly. I left the office with that kick in my walk brought about by the knowledge that this was going to be a three-day weekend - our last one for the year, alas. Rather than go home, change and do all that running around town, I had arranged to head straight to my friend's flat in Rotherite - which actually sounds a lot further out than it is - for the "party" and take an overnight bag to sleep there if I felt like it - you know, just in case things got a bit out of hand. We were, after all, partying with "kids".
I realised things wouldn't quite go that way when I arrived to find that the parents had come down to join the birthday celebrations. They were funding the night, so they must have wanted to feel that they had contributed to it in more ways than just dipping their hands in their pockets. Unfortunately, their idea of getting involved was not quite what we had in mind. The mother - who was not really that much older than myself - spent the whole evening imposing herself on anyone she could corner and proceed to inform him or her about how much her children were dependent on her, and how useless they were without her. "Can you believe my son can't even tell his left from his right?" she repeated over and over again to me at one point, a few glasses of champagne having had a bit of an effect on her. I tried to tell her that I don't think there's anything wrong with that and that even I, sometimes, had problems with directions, especially in moments of panic, but she wasn't having any of it - in fact, I doubt if she was even listening to what I had to say!
"I'm not staying here for this," said another female friend invited to the celebrations about half an hour later. "She's crazy! I've just had her poking her finger into my chest saying 'You don't know what it's like because you don't have children," It's true, I had actually seen the mother cornering my friend - an ex-party girl now approaching middle-age, who really doesn't need reminding that she doesn't have anyone in her life but her dog - and thought of intervening. In fact, I think I was heading in that direction when the father stopped me to ask if I'd seen the chocolate fountain - his main contribution to the evening. "Ehrm, no," I lied, "I'm not a big fan of chocolate." The truth is, I'd seen it in the kitchen and the smell of cheap chocolate was so bad that I had to leave the room.
As the time for the kids to go out approached, the mother got more and more hysterical. "Four young girls dressed like that are asking for trouble," she said to us, like we had never left the house in our lives. "Little does she know," chuckled my girlfriend when she said that, "how much fun those girls are going to have!"
In the end, we couldn't take it anymore. My girlfriend was suddenly very tired, and I was suddenly getting the beginnings of a headache ("It must have been the smell of the chocolate," I lied). We asked the girls if we could join them in the car when it arrived to take them to Shoreditch. "Of course," they said, realising how desperate we were to get out of this situation. We were out of there like a shot at the first mention of a taxi arriving.
Once in the car, the girls really came into action: Make-up was reapplied, skirts were shortened and cleavages emphasised. The shy, retiring kids we had met inside were instantly transformed into excited girls, eyes wide open by the thought of a night on the town. "I'm switching my mobile off," said the birthday girl, "my mother's bound to try and call me a million times."
During my morning-after phone call to my friend who threw the party, I was informed that the girls had returned at 5 a.m., drunk and disorderly as was to be expected. The mother had, as predicted, kept trying to find any excuse to call the kids and find out what they were up to. Luckily he kept topping up her champagne glass, so by the stroke of midnight, she had already been taken to bed.