First things first, my worst nightmare would be a ‘milestone’ party, you know the one – where you’re the centre of attention, where all eyes are focused on how bloody marvelous you are for living this long. So as I’m turning the big Hawaii five-O next week, I’m thankful that my family are well aware of my wishes and wouldn’t dare to go against them. They’d go to the opening of an envelope that lot and can gather en masse within minutes at the sniff of a party. I, on the other hand, can think of nothing worse than having people hiding in every nook and cranny of your house, ready to pounce into your unsuspecting face while manically screaming ‘SURPRISE’. Give the aged a heart-attack, why don’t ye? But it’s okay, my family and friends, having been pre-warned in no uncertain terms, just wouldn’t do that to me.
So just to be sure (as I don’t entirely trust them), I decided the best possible way to turn 50 and avoid giving the family any excuse for ‘partytime’ is to book a break-away with the poor long-suffering husband. That way any family members who have notions of singing ‘Congratulations’ while pouncing their Sallynoggin mush from behind my electrical appliances could get the feck lost! They can slink away reluctantly into the night and gatecrash someone elses birthday, wedding, wake (fill in as appropriate) celebrations. I’m having none of it.
I spent hours on the tinternet looking for a place to escape and decided that Monaco was far enough away. Despite the possibility of being ambushed by tourists as a ‘live’ Princess Grace (given my regal and genteel persona), I thought that Monte-Carlo would be far enough away from my family’s party-planning. The latter Princess Grace reference was a thought from my sister – laced with sisterly humour/sarcasm. So I reiterated, once again, for the purpose of clarity, in no uncertain terms, why I was escaping to a far-enough away country.
Today is Sunday (19th of July 2015) and I’m feckin traumatised. While returning from ‘the big smoke’ last night, I was ambushed from behind the aforementioned electrical appliances. I should have known that my family would ignore me, a party is a party after all, whether wanted or not. A busload of genetically related (no doubt modified) Sallynoggin-heads sprang from behind the kitchen presses manically screaming ‘SURPRISE’. So what part of ‘I DON’T WANT A PARTY’ did they not understand? Is it the NOT word? Did they mistake my numerous loud protestations for WHY YES, A PARTY WOULD BE LOVELY, THANK YOU?
What started off as a composed affair quickly turned into an evening of much depravity and debauchery. Seriously, why can’t we ‘Irish’ just do high-tea? What’s so wrong with just meeting up for lunch or going out to dinner in a normal(ish) fashion? Instead a barbeque was brought down from Dublin, along with mountains of food and enough alcohol to fill an olympic sized swimming pool. My supposed friends never thought of warning me in advance, even for the purposes of making myself respectable for the camera. Even my mother played a willing part in the deception and I was totally oblivious. I did wonder why my brother came down to do the garden but put it down to him just being nice. The moral of the story – beware of men bearing lawn mowers!
The Last Word –
I’m thinking of changing the locks and barring the aforementioned ‘poor long-suffering husband’ from the family home. That’ll wipe the smug look off his face – totally justified for him allowing my family to railroad him into acquiescence, despite knowing full well of my wishes. So much for fair-weather spouses- anyone in need of a slightly battered ex-soul-mate? He’s so not coming to Monaco.
See below for the definition of disloyalty..