Party Time - Not

I'm not gregarious enough for parties, at least not for anything involving more than four people (and that's stretching it a bit). The thought of an evening spent surrounded by balloons fills me with gloom. Drinking warm, weak beer from a plastic glass is just one more facet of the devil's work. Anything vaguely edible on a stick or with a bone in it, needs to be cast to the winds. Life is just too short for enforced merriment. If hell exists, it will not be a place of fire and brimstone; it will be a flatly-lit room full of drunks talking about sport, their jobs, their kids or their neighbours. The food will be tepid and taste of cabbage.

I haven't been to any parties recently, thankfully. These thoughts were triggered by this image of balloons snagged on a barbed wire fence. The scene conjures to perfection my view of large scale jollity. Dull. Monotonous. Gloomy. I used to go to a lot of after-show shindigs where we joined the lovies and stood around telling each other how marvellous it all was. I was usually the first to leave; going home to Pixie was always going to be more entertaining.

If I'm at a party with Pixie - a very rare occurrence - I am made to behave myself. For a start I'm not allowed to indulge in my usual party activity which is to find a book or newspaper and retire to a dark corner (I have been known to take reading materials with me). If she catches me playing games on my PDA, I'm also in trouble. Nor am I allowed to eat too many cold sausages, pork pie segments or crisps. And I get told off if if I start talking her into leaving within 15 minutes of getting there. Also I'm expected to mingle. What an obscene activity that is! I'd rather hit my thumb repeatedly with a giant hammer.

Being antisocial is a real chore but it's worth striving for. Eventually you stop being invited to anything.

Now that is worth blowing a balloon up for.

(Oddly enough I'll talk to anyone I don't know it it's one-to-one; always up for a chat with the postman, girl on the checkout, bloke in the street. It's the group thing I can't cope with. No doubt there's a word for it in the psychological lexicon).