Ideas floated in a party daze

Yes, it was the carnival on Saturday, Ringwood’s answer to Rio, minus the exotic.

When my friend told me he thought it might be “quite nice” to have a town centre garden to throw a party for carnival day, I thought that sounded like a great idea.

That was until I realised he was referring to my own garden, then my heart lurched.

I am not the best at throwing parties.

Throwing the perfect party involves a great deal of organisation, social skills, a full bank account and nerves of steel.

I am highly-strung and skint. I become so preoccupied with cooking something fabulous that I ignore my guests, leaving them to fend for themselves, and then I worry that the mix of people won’t gel so I pour myself a glass of something and then become confused, not only by the timings of whatever it is that I am cooking but also by my own life.

Nonetheless I agreed, much to the delight of the Teen and her five friends, who thought that a party would give them the opportunity to get their hands on some hard liquor.

But my visions of an outdoor, candlelit trestle table, with a slow burning chiminea on the lawn surrounded by 20 plus smiling faces were dashed that morning after spotting my sitting tenant (Dad) bashing down a small wall leaving rubble and tree roots scattered over my party venue.

My outburst was short as he promised to have cleared up the rubble and the vats of poison (weed killer) littering the garden (forgive him, he hasn’t heard of an ecology) ahead of the nine children arriving at 4pm.

I spent the day cooking and fretting about the weather, seating, tables and if one bottle of red would stretch to fill 20 glasses.

Not relying on Dad’s word I set the tables indoors, but of course, when everyone arrived they headed straight into the garden where Dad and his pal had lit the chiminea (with flames now about a mile high).

All eight men, glasses in hand, stood around the blazing chiminea while my friend and I lugged the tables, the chairs, the booze, the food, flowers, tablecloths and candles over the rubble and into a safe spot.

Not one of them offered to lend a hand, oh no, they were too preoccupied with fire pokers, wood and opening the door of my blazing antique.

At least they were bonding, I suppose.

After the procession everyone ventured back into the garden, where the booze flowed and the music played.

Strangers became friends and the whole night made a happy memory.

Thanks to the high volume of alcohol someone suggested doing a carnival float for next year, which was met by shrieks of excitement.

I just hope that alcohol will cause memory loss by next week.

If organising a party is bad, think of organising a float.

I suppose we have 12 months.

Readers who submit articles must agree to our terms of use. The content is the sole responsibility of the contributor and is unmoderated. But we will react if anything that breaks the rules comes to our attention. If you wish to complain about this article, contact us here