Garden Party

The party would have been perfect if it was not for one thing. The dusk of the summers evening and glasses of wine and just the right number of canapes and how delicately prepared! The gentle hubbub of people chatting and enjoying themselves all looking radiant in their beautiful outfits, lit by paper lanterns and a dark suited string quartet playing away all the time. But oh, that odious Peter Brown! With stinking cigar and prickly beard and that ragged excuse for a tailcoat he spirals into view, spitting out coarse jokes from under the flecks of red wine on his moustache. Of course it is only a matter of time before I am cornered and he presses close to mutter awful endearments and to spit out smoke, slapping his leg with each brutish jolt of anecdote. Chloe and Michael sweep past, cooing and raising glasses of champagne but there is no chance of rescue as Peter capers, snatching more wine from a flustered waiter and lighting another cigar from the butt of the first.

The sun is completely set now and the stars are out and people are dancing slowly to the string quartet by the fountain, as with cautious glances we emerge from the rhodedendrons adjusting our clothing. To my horror his cigar is not only between his teeth once again but somehow still lit. We part company with one final clash between wiry beard and cheek, and back towards the house he swaggers, until the next time.