I had to go to a birthday party at the end of last week. Four whole hours of my life wasted listening to a bunch of deifheids competing to show off their stories about themselves. First topic was how many numbers you got right in that week's jackpot lottery. Apparently one person won their stake back. Other themes included how much you paid in the sale for that bargain pair of trousers.
After a couple of hours of this, attention turned to food, and a pizza delivery menu was passed around so we could order by phone. Everyone got to choose what colour of food scraps they wanted sprinkled on their overpriced Italian toasted cheese. When the delivery man showed up an hour later, there was a whip-round among the guests to pay for it. The partner coughed up happily, but there was no way I was paying towards shite food I would only give to a dog.
I would cook something decent if and when we ever got home. Meanwhile, because I had agreed to drive home, I couldn't even numb the pain with a shandy!
The worst phrase you can hear at a birthday party is "you can't leave now - they haven't had the birthday cake yet, and the song." Sometimes I almost wish I was a blissheid on indefinite retreat.
My patience nearly blew when I realised I had a sick dog at home with pneumonia, while I was wasting my time among deifheids. Incidentally, I'm not a racist, but I did notice that several of the deifheids were Australian. If I hadn't had to consider the partner, I would have walked out and never gone back. I could have caught the next plane back to Scotland, where there are no deifheids and the conversation is sparkling and inclusive. And if you're lucky enough to end up at a conference, the catering is splendid.