BBQ:Y?

And so I have, somehow, survived my first social evening at Tom’s house. It was the strangest night I’ve had in a long time; even stranger than the ‘Come Dressed As A Fart’ fancy dress night we had at uni. Tom is such an over-powering personality and presence that everyone else is left cowering in the corners or shuffling in the shadows. His brood are nice enough people, but all his children seem to have been cut-and-pasted from a Hollywood glamour mag, and they all seem on the verge of breaking out into an AC/DC song or declaring their love for Satan.
Philippa turned up looking, quite frankly, stunning in a tight red party dress with heels and make-up. I’m so used to seeing her in her dowdy work suit from Next that as she walked over to me I couldn’t help but ask ‘Where the Hell did you come from?’ She seemed keen on being near me most of the evening, actually. It was nice, but I think she’d rather spend time with Peter Sutcliffe than with her own family, so I’m not taking it as a sign of romantic interest. Her being there was a Godsend, though. She was very, very different from the girl I talk to in the office, which probably shouldn’t surprise me, but don’t forget I handle relationships with the opposite sex about as well as a one-armed addict with hiccups would handle a Ming, so I’m often surprised by women. Surprised and ignored, generally.
My low point of the evening would have to be Tom’s insistence on picking up the guitar and playing us all the song he has written about love, which uses only two chords and has worse lyrics than you’d find on a postage stamp.
My highlight of the evening, I’m afraid, was leaving.

RC 25-4-10