Having to go to a child’s party and hang around a stranger’s house for half a day small-talking is right up there.
It’s tricky enough spending a day with your own. At least you can shout at your own, if need be, but dare you shout at someone else’s children?
You would have to emigrate. There would be no way back in this close-knit community.
And as Fionnuala wasn’t going, I had to be extra vigilant.
She was pinging messages beforehand about what treats to bring.
“Not our party. I’m not buying all this rubbish for strangers.”
“Everyone who came to our parties brought sweets. Don’t arrive empty-handed.”
Yes, I remembered, as I pulled up outside Lidl, we had to dump the majority of that mountain of stuff as it congealed in the corner, slowly going out of date. Though I drooled over that now, as I was starving.
“Will be nice food there.”
I remembered to make sure Fionnuala didn’t know exactly where I was shopping – the culchies can be alarmingly snobby sometimes – but I also began to notice how cold it was. I was looking at mini-yogurts in the fridge and I swear I started shivering.
I cursed myself for just wearing a Hawaiian shirt in the middle of October, but I saw a decent-looking puffer jacket in the middle aisle and when I tried it on, it really warmed me up.
I decided to keep it on for the duration of my shop, and indeed noticed some admiring glances from fellow customers. It was navy with a red lining and it fitted like a glove.
Anyway, I completely forgot I was wearing it and after paying up at the till, as warm as toast, I headed out to the car and away.
At the traffic lights I checked myself in the mirror and let out a yelp.
The staff were very nice when I went back but said they had notified the police and had everything on CCTV.
I assured them that I wouldn’t steal the jacket – I wouldn’t even buy it, though it was exceedingly warm and smart.
Later on, I was at the party and had done my stint as a bouncy castle supervisor, had small-talked for Ireland with the other dads, and carried on a bit with the mummies in the kitchen.
There was some prosecco on the go and I was asked a hundred times did I want a beer or wine.
I said I couldn’t, but I wouldn’t turn down a plate of curry as I was peckish.
The woman who owned the house ordered me to sit down and said she would get me ‘Seamus’s curry’ – a good bowl of it.
Another mummy sat beside me and said: “Seamus does the best curry in Tyrone, Fabien. It’s not the one the wee ones are getting.”
“Good, because I’m ravenous.”
“It’s the taste,” the mummy assured me. “And you won’t have to hunt the chicken, that’s for sures.”
It was in a sizeable bowl, with rice and the curry slathered all over, and the first taste wasn’t unpleasant.
But it was definitely that curry powder that you mix with water, with under-cooked onions and over-cooked chicken. Lots of chicken.
And as the adults kept glancing over with told-you-so faces, I found myself struggling to keep eating.
The chunks were too big and too plentiful and I was starting to sweat with each swallow.
It was Man v Food all of a sudden, as various people sat down to check how much I was enjoying it.
The party host dolloped another load in the bowl and I had to turn my frightened face into a thank you.
I had to ram every ghastly chunk down my throat and as the entire kitchen turned to watch me force down the last huge one, the hostess cried: “That’ll do you ‘till you get something to eat.”
And everyone cheered.