IN last week’s bombshell episode, you may recall I mentioned that nobody had ever sat at my kitchen table.
As a professional journalist, I am proud to admit that this allegation was a complete porkie. Actually, that’s a bit of an inaccuracy as well. Blasted column’s full of them!
Allow to me to explain.
Technically, it was correct of me to say that no guest had sat at the kitchen table – in this current house. But technically, it was incorrect to imply that no one had ever sat at it, because two other couples on three different occasions had sat at it in my last house, when I had a competent partner to help with (i.e completely organise) the entertaining, at which I myself am rubbish.
The table itself
The table, I should explain, since I know you’re sticklers for detail, is a cheap pine affair out of yon IKEA. Not only that, but someone has got paint on it, and it’s also had bits chipped off by an electric saw when that same someone (clearly a complete idiot) was working on a project nearby, before I – sorry, he – cleared the floor, as reported exclusively in last week’s column.
I could not entertain anyone by my own efforts. The last time I tried, several houses ago, was a massive disaster.
Deciding I’d better get some food in, after irresponsibly inviting friends for dinner, I went out for a big joint of beef and a small vat of whisky too.
Unfortunately, having found such exertions tiring, I dozed off and, waking some time later, thought I’d better start cooking the meat. Checking the instructions, however, I was flabbergasted to find it would take four hours. The folk were due round in an hour and a half.
Desperate journey
What to do? Well, I couldn’t go back to the big supermarket 34 miles away, so I drove the 13 miles to the village shop on the island where I then lived to get something else in.
But the choice was limited and I couldn’t find anything that would make a proper feed. If I put Maltesers in a fancy bowl, would that do?
However, eventually, I alighted on some haggis and neeps, and took that to the till. Which is where I found I’d come away without my wallet.
Could you lend me some money to pay for your dinner?
Luckily, one of my guests, on the way to the house, popped in for something and I was able to say: “Could you lend me some money to pay for your dinner?”
What a disaster it turned out to be. One of the guests was a right gourmand, and he wasn’t impressed with his repast at all, so I drank his share of the whisky and got beyond caring.
Pre-Covid, when folk came to visit at my current demesne, I’d just take them down to the local hotel for dinner, which also had the advantage that, aware of my penury, they always insisted on paying. That’s why I could frequently be heard shouting to the waiter: “Stuart, bring me another massive dram!”
Luckily, friends of mine love entertaining and, once the pandemic restrictions are lifted, I shall be booking myself in for meals with them again. But me do such a thing in return? Not a chance. I know my limitations. I accept that they are legion.
