The cocktail party

It is past eight o’clock when Jeanette and I finally set out for Mahri and Gilmore’s, laden with desserts and Christmas presents. Due to our hurried change, we have both fretted about our outfits. I am wearing a short skirt with Ugg boots because having warm feet has taken precedence over looking glam, and Jeanette cosies up in a frothy purple scarf which she thinks is a bit outré and a black dress which once caused Jean to ask ‘when’s the baby due?’. But it’s too late to change again.

When we arrive, it is apparent the tom toms have arrived before us, and everyone already knows why we are late – although there is confusion over whether the key got stuck in lock, there was something stuck in the lock, the key got lost or it was in fact, Jeanette’s cottage that we were locked out from. Regardless, it is a tale that by the end of tomorrow the entire village with be familiar with, albeit slightly different versions of the truth.

Cocktails means cocktails. Only cocktails. Served with dinner, rather than canapés (although we probably missed these). To my mind, a much better way of doing things because judging by the Harvey Wallbanger that I was presented with, I will need a decent amount of food to mop up the alcohol.

Everyone is in slippers, except Jeanette and I. Apparently we did not receive the written invitation which said shoes were to be left in the hall.

“For the first time in twenty-five years, Gilmore has had the carpet cleaned,” says Mahri, marvelling that he would choose to do this before the party and 40 snowy feet descended on their living room, so she told everyone to bring slippers. A trail of mud is spied across the pristine carpet, the culprit must be either Jeanette or I but by now – of course - the bottoms of our boots are clear of any muck.

A second Harvey Wallbanger and I am being regaled with Paul’s story of being fitted for his new golf clubs. He goes through the detail of each selection in meticulous detail – how he swung the club, the pro’s amazement at how far he drove the ball, the number of times he was told he should really be playing off a nine handicap, not 13. He bought nine new clubs, and each required a few practice swings (nearly decapitating a few guests each time). The story took a while to tell. He is still playing off 13, however.

Dinner is served, and I have a cocktail of vodka, pomegranate and apple and ginger ale. It is very sweet and a fuzzy purple colour. I chat to Barry who runs the village shop. We discuss his staff issues, particularly how to stop one lady from taking several daily smoko breaks outside the shop and leaning, in full view of customers, on the pump. The petrol pump, that is.

Groups start to form and settle into armchairs to eat dessert. I meet VJ who raises piglets.

“Do you breed them?” I ask.

“No, I just eat them for myself,” she says, admitting that pork can get monotonous and she did once ask a shooter if she could swap a pig for a deer. He happily obliged and left a dead deer on her doorstep. Tony snorted and said he wasn’t surprised, shooters had no use for deer which really weren’t worth much, they were just shooting fodder, but a pig! – well a pig was a valuable commodity. In his opinion, she had a poor trade.

Over in the corner, I hear Gilmore mention the name Jake.

“Oh, is that Black Jake,” I ingenuously ask. It seems most people know him as Jake and I’m afraid I cannot explain how he came to be called Black Jake, only that Eric described him thus.

 “Mind you, I can only understand every third word Eric says,” and the assembly titters, perhaps at my lack of an ear for the Scottish dialect or in sympathy for deciphering Eric’s broad brogue.

Gilmore continues the story of Black Jake’s recent brush with violence.

A well known local identity, let’s call him Harry, often seen propping up the various bars around the village although he has been banned a couple of times from the inn and the pub (“A couple of times!” hooted Jackie. “Did he forget he was banned the first time?”), recently approached Gilmore – who is a barrister - with a legal problem.

“If someone asks you to mend their chainsaw, and you forget, and then they want it back, and you don’t have it any more, is that stealing?” asked Harry to Gilmore.

“Well,” said Gilmore, treading carefully, “that would depend on the circumstances.”

Henry looked thoughtful. “It was a crap chainsaw anyway,” he said.

Which is how Harry’s tyres MAY have come to be slashed. There is no proof of course, but the money is on Black Jake, the owner of the missing chainsaw.

The next round of cocktails is sloe gin with tonic. Sloe gin is made with cranberries, is bright pink and quite lethal. But after Harvey Wallbangers and the purple pomegranate concoction, who cares?

Mahri reminisces about her first Sambuca.

“I didn’t know you were supposed to blow the flame out before you drank it. I singed my fringe quite badly,” she said, in a bemused voice.

Whilst on the subject of coiffure, she told us about her recent trip to Perth to have her hair permed. She forgot to put any money in the Pay Machine at the carpark, and only remembered once she was settled at the hairdressers. With her hair in rollers, cotton wool framing her face and a shower cap over her head, she sprinted the considerable distance across the city to the carpark.

“Did anyone stare at you?” asks Hannah (seriously).

It is time to go home. John, a carpenter, says goodnight and kindly offers his services should I get home and be unable to unlock my door.

“But call Eric first,” he says.