It’s been a Sat Nav Xmas so far, with parties beyond the reckoning of my knowledge of, er, Soho.
I haven’t been to a suburban party for yonks, so when I received an invite from a friend to come down to his and his mum’s place (hey, they both seem like decent folks, so who am I to judge?), I crossed the river and went to deepest Dulwich.
The maisonette was gorgeous, with a lovely tree (Exhibit A), tons of food and, despite the 25 minute drive from the West End, lots of folks. Strangely enough, no one was eating the fab banquet spread out on the table so I thought I’d have a go. One nibble of satay told me something was amiss. Was this truly rat-on-a-stick? It was too sweet. Or something. I tried the olives. UGH! What THE HELL is in those? I headed over to the prawns on a leaf… I am sure the fact that the party room was upstairs had very little to do with the total non-eating scenario downstairs.
The cooked buffet (‘A friend of mum’s,’ my lovely host rolled his eyes) had been perpetrated by someone whose taste buds were abused in childhood by an evil stepmother. ‘Come with me,’ beckoned the mum, who took me upstairs to her dungeon (Exhibit B). Of course! I thought things seemed TOO clean and way too tidy. She has a slave to do her cleaning!
This is yet another reason why one should never judge the ‘burbs as being quaint and boring and sad. Obviously, this is where it is ALL happening… beautiful house, beautiful tree, beautiful people and absolutely wonderful dungeon. (‘Ah yes, a friend of ours has one up in Stoke Newington,’ said my date knowingly. What DOES one say when one is presented with a dungeon?) It’s all good… except for the food, that is.Exhibit A