A night in Surbiton

Well we did it. We
spent Burns night with a bunch of strangers. And let me tell you now,
it was delightful.

Naturally, we were
late. We had carefully planned that we would need to leave at 5.30pm
to get there on time, so we organised for our friends to take the
children around 5pm, which would give us plenty of opportunity to get
ourselves dolled up, drive down and check into a Travelodge before
wandering over to the party.

As a parent, I
should have remembered that careful planning is no longer a valuable
asset in our lives. By lunch time, Joachin had already discovered an
invitation to a swimming party in his bag. It was for 6.30pm. The
idea that maybe, just this once, he could miss out on a party saw a
wobbly bottom lip, which meant a few minutes of phone calls and
sorting out who would take him, who would pick him up, and carefully
placing a pound for the lockers in his coat pocket so he wouldn’t
forget.

Then I checked my
email and discovered that a member of the U12 tennis team had dropped
out at the last minute and could Joachin possibly take their place.
The match was at 4pm. Another wobbly bottom lip. I rang the coach and
confirmed that the match would be an hour and a half at the most.
Tight, but we could do it.

So we rang round
again, and reorganised who was going to be where and doing what, and
at quarter to four I got Joachin into his coat, armed him with a
tennis racquet and drove him to our local tennis club.

At 5.30pm I was
home, changed, ready to go and just waiting on Joachin to be brought
back by his grandmother.

By 5.45pm, we were
getting worried. I rang said grandmother. Apparently, all of the
matches were finished but one. You can guess which one. He wasn’t
winning, but Joachin was putting up a fight. He was really making his
opponent work for his victory. Half of me thought, good for you,
don’t go down without a fight. The other half was looking at his
watch and thinking defeat at 5.30pm would be very similar to defeat
at 6pm but with slightly less time pressure.

At 6pm, the
triumphant loser returned. We all congratulated him on a match well
fought, said our goodbyes and prepared to get in the car. Then Sue
casually asked Joachin where his coat was.

Let’s just say, I
managed the drive to the tennis club and back in less time then it
would have taken me to adequately describe my feelings on the matter.
We set off an hour and a half late and began the long drive to Surrey
in darkness.

When we arrived in
Surbiton, we were rather surprised to discover that our hotel
appeared to be a car park. The car park for Marks and Spencers as it
happens, so it seems even the squalor is terribly middle class in
Surrey. Still, we dutifully drove to the second level, as instructed,
and discovered the Travelodge entrance disguised as a maintenance
hatch behind the bins.

Having checked in
with an overly cheerful receptionist, we dumped our bags and headed
to the party.

A little bit of
background is required here. We met Gillian and Adrian when my
brother in law had decided to take the children to see a Michael
Morpurgo play produced by the local theatre company, and we took the
opportunity of being child free to go to a rather nice restaurant. We
arrived at the South Lodge hotel, where the restaurant is located, to
be told that it wasn’t quite ready, and were invited to have a drink
in the bar while we waited. I had assumed it was our table that
wasn’t ready, not the restaurant. It turned out I was wrong. When we
were shown through, I realised that the entire restaurant consists of
about eleven tables, all in a line, all right next to the kitchen
which is masterminded by the brilliant Matt Gillan. This arrangement
means that you are very close to the tables on either side. So close,
in fact, that when our neighbours arrived it seemed natural to strike
up a conversation with them. Wine flowed, we drank and dined, and
this is how we came to be strolling down Serbiton High Street,
searching for a party amongst the day care centres, pension advisors
and chiropracters.

We found the house
without trouble. The first thing we noticed when we walked in was the
opera singer. He was singing in a voice tuned for the Albert Hall,
and one which therefore had little trouble projecting to every
crevice of the living room. We handed over coats to be hung up, and
made our way to said living room where everyone was standing in
thrall to the talented tenor. He was singing to a haggis.

We had been nervous
about how we would integrate into this company. The likelihood was
that everyone would know each other and that we would struggle to
break into the conversation with our limited smalltalk, and fall back
question of what everybody did for a living.

The reality was
that, with the exception of Luke, our opera singer, I spent the
evening without feeling the need to find out anything about what
anyone did, and could instead concentrate on the more joyful task of
finding out who they were.

I’ve always regarded
the ‘what do you do’ question as a useful entry point, a fine way to
steer the conversation towards some point of commonality without
having to launch in with ‘what’s your favourite chip’, but ultimately
a very soulless question, reducing everyone as it does to a Happy
Families card with no personality beyond PC Plod, the policeman, or
Mr Chip, the cookie baker.

This was not that
kind of party. Within seconds, I felt as though we had known everyone
for ever. It helped that, as part of the Burns Night festivities, we
were split into teams, so we could participate in improvised Highland
Games. If trying to throw a Mars Bar into a sieve using only your
mouth doesn’t break the ice then nothing will. We took part in
tossing the caper (using a spoon to throw a small green pizza
ingredient into the mouth of Nicola Sturgeon), and the ham-mer throw
(a piece of ham, on a cocktail stick, thrown into the mouth of Gordon
Brown). By the end of the night, we were replete with whisky, haggis,
and Tunnock’s chocolate tea cakes.

In the last post I
promised you to report on what happens when you throw away your
inhibitions and allow yourself to say yes to an opportunity. I can
gleefully report that what happens is that you make new friends,
gather new experiences, and end up having the time of your life. Now
I feel an obligation to throw our own party, so we can return the
favour and invite all our new friends to visit us, although I feel my
opera singing may not be quite at the same quality level.

The only thing that
remains is to find an occasion of equal national significance to
Burns Night. What day is St George’s on again?