Friday, 17 September 2010

On friends and family…

A lighthearted take on something that’s been happening to me recently.

The wife is out of town. This presents a problem.

Each and every night I have been invited out to a variety of events. Wednesday: Dinner and drinks with my sister-in-law and her fiancée (both good friends of mine, very nice, a fun time was had). Last night: Work event, followed by beer at a friend's bar. I skipped out before my friends went off to watch The Banana Cognacs in Dany’s. Tonight: Family dinner. Though I intend to skip out on that one, too much depressing talk about the cost of wedding venues in Lebanon. So far, the only free day I have since the missus fled the country on Tuesday is Saturday, though I seem to remember a brunch date.

One of my dearest friends even offered to buy me groceries. I nearly choked to death. I’ve never seen this woman cook, let alone shop for food. She’s a take-out sort of girl not a domestic goddess. Nevertheless, I was tempted to send her down to Spinneys looking for some obscure brand of Italian Buffalo Mozzarella. But I’m not that cruel. Well, actually, I am, but the offer took me by complete surprise.

Another friend invited me to an Alan Shore-Denny Crane-style sleepover. I wasn’t quite sure how to take that. On the other hand, he is my flamingo.

"Does the Cosmopolitan make me
look a little, y'know?"

Let’s put this in context. I’ve lived at home for the grand total of two years since leaving secondary school, with the exception of holidays during the university breaks. At the age of 18 I had learnt to fly small aircraft and lived, alone, in New York. Since then, I’ve bounced around a fair bit. I have white hairs in my beard. Actually, “beard”, is a somewhat misleading term, I have white in my overgrown designer stubble.

However, apparently, I can’t be trusted to buy food. Nor eat, judging by the amount of invitations to dinner I’ve received from my mother-in-law.

Beans: Gourmet eating

I know this is a Lebanese hospitality-thing, however ... my friends, I love the lot of you, but I’m not two years old.

Though, if someone’s willing to pop over and iron a few shirts, that’d be great.