Post Match Analysis

A caterer friend of mine told me some time ago that at informal gatherings, you can assume that a third of people won’t show.  ‘A third?’ I guffawed!  Not my friends!  I mean, going by the invitation list to my highly exclusive and incredibly intimate party to celebrate my 50th, that would equate to 40 people. Forty!  Some people don’t even have forty friends, never mind forty of them not turning up! But you know what, they were right.  It began when, two weeks after issuing the invitations, the RSVPs were still only trickling in.  The anxiety moved in at an increasingly accelerated rate, whilst I tried to manage my growing OCD, doing my best to resist sending bolshie text messages or go knocking on friends’ doors in the middle of the night, desperate for specifics, determined to extract definitive responses.

 

The 24 hours preceding the party led to me receiving  a raft of guilt ridden text messages with all kinds of feeble excuses, like broken ribs; being in Australia/Cyprus/Spain; sick babies, even no baby sitter. I mean, what’s wrong with leaving a baby on their own for a few hours. They’re asleep – what would they know?…… See, rubbish excuses, eh?  So I start to panic.   It’s a quarter past eight.  The balloons are blown, the candles lit, and the play list sorted. The white wine and beer are chilled, the red wine is airing and the canapés are at the ready. (After all, how long does it take to throw a bag of crisps in a bowl?)  But there’s no one here.  It’s just me, my sister, and the kids. Oh, and the caterers, who’ve arrived with a bar man who looks like he’s just stepped out of the Chippendales.  I pray the rain holds off, because it would ruin his spray tan.  I hate this point, waiting for the first arrivals; worrying that no one will turn up; terrified the night will be a disaster.  30  minutes later, and the house is full; groups of friends have arrived, drinks are being poured, introductions are being made, and I’m hugely relieved to see the familiar faces and delighted that so many are here.  By ten o clock, the music is blaring, the ice supply is under serious pressure and the house is throbbing with energised, excited and engaging conversations.

I’m loving introducing my disparate groups of friends to each other; making connections and pointing out common interests to newly introduced acquaintances. Even the rain has held off, much to the relief of our bar man and his orange skin. People continue to arrive as others leave, and around one am, the dancing starts.  The teenagers kick it off, initially in one corner but the moves, the passionate arm waving and the fantastic energy of their dancing gets us all going.  By two, the house is banging, jumping, pounding, with our collective rhythm and bon Amie.  I’m so happy I want to cry.

 

Suddenly the music stops, and the room goes silent, other than some moans and teenage gripes about the unexpected break in music.  And then my old pal DC (I won’t name and shame) loudly invites me to address the assembled guests; to make a speech and do the usual formalities.  All of which would normally be expected, welcomed even, but my invitations explicitly stated that I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t explain why, but clearly stated there would be no birthday cake, no singing of happy birthday, and no speeches.  It was too hard to put into words and felt way too self obsessed, to articulate in an invitation what lay behind that (for me) incredibly unusual request that I be left in the shadows. So here I am, in the middle of most of my dearest friends, invited to speak to them and thank them for being with me in my celebrations, and I want to run away. I want to ignore the request, or go outside for a fag; to tell everyone to feck off home and leave me to the growing collection of wine bottles.  Of course, I do none of that, but instead laugh through the awkwardness, express my genuine gratitude to everyone for joining me, and then get the hell out of Dodge. As soon as the music is back on, the boogieing again in full flow, led this time by the seemingly battery driven Dancing Priest, I get myself upstairs to the bathroom, manage to undo the multiple layers of spanx which have been holding me into my dress all night, and sit on the loo. Head in my hands, I cry a few tears, and do my best to prevent the torrent that is threatening to burst the dam.

What was so hard about that? I’m used to public speaking, in fact, I love it.  And actually, I know I’m good at it.  But this isn’t work, it’s personal. It feels like such a lonely place, there in the middle of eighty people, in a  room full of family and friends.  There is no hand on the small of my back, no one beside me, smiling knowingly when the inevitable tears appear, and the tremble becomes obvious in my voice.  No special person there for me, because to them I’m special.   I know I have incredible friends, but standing here, on my own, no one by my side, leaves me feeing isolated and so very alone.  And God help me, I still miss him

 

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry tonight so I do some deep breathing, suck myself back into the spanx and top up my lipstick.  For a few moments, reengaging is an effort, but quickly I really am comfortable, happy, and having fun. I am learning to shrug off the past, and it really is a fantastic party!

The dancing gives way to the inevitable sing-song some time after 3 am, which is around the time we discover that the (young) teenagers have been drinking Red Bull, which explains their highly energetic dance moves.  A quick conversation with my siblings about any required action with our respective offspring, but we agree they could have drunk far worse, so we let it go.  The last guests leave at six, as the birds are singing and the sun comes out.  When we rouse ourselves sometime around midday, the numerous text messages and phone calls confirm that others also had a great night, the most frequent comment relating to the company and what a lovely bunch of people were there.

Having had a few days to reflect, I’ve thought about the key factors that contribute to a great night, and here’s what I think:

 

–          Remember the wise words of my pal: one third of people won’t turn up, so ask far more people than you have room for.  (This rule probably only applies in Ireland where we haven’t really gotten the hang of the whole invitation- and- reply process.  If you live elsewhere I recommend doing your own research on this, although I have it on good authority that the Greeks take a similar attitude to RSVPs);

–          Choose music that will get people dancing, not music that ‘means’ something to you.  After a few glasses of prosecco, nobody is listening to the words, even if they are singing them;

–          Make lists. Loads of them.  Lists for the food; the alcohol; the non alcoholic stuff; the invitations; the RSVPs (obviously that one will be short); the play list;

–          Connect people – it’s always so great to have a night where you’ve met someone new who has had similar experiences which you empathise with or with whom you share a common interest, so as host, you can facilitate that;

–          Organise someone to take loads of photos.  If they are sober, and know how it use the camera, that’s a bonus. (Unfortunately the various people who took photos for me had neither of these attributes).

 

But most importantly of all, have friends of whom you are proud, as I am. (Even DC!)