It's my party and I'll sulk if I want to

Blimey. We seem to have unleashed a monster with this party of ours.

To be honest my enthusiasm for the whole idea has been waning rapidly, especially since we had to postpone it from the original date. Hallowe’en’s been and gone, it’s not Christmas yet, it’s cold, dark and miserable (oh hang on, maybe it IS Christmas?), and warming our flat three months after we moved in and when we’ve hardly been here seems a little strange. Plus it means tidying and cleaning. So in a fit of the Scrooginess from which I occasionally suffer, I was all for cancelling the bloody thing once and for all.

But it is not to be. Forces beyond my control have seized upon the idea, swept it up and carried it – with the keenness that only the Chinese can demonstrate – to heights far beyond those I ever envisaged.

It started when we finally decided on a date – Dec 6th, so that Boss would be back from holiday – and Peter told Kevin. Kevin strode into the main office and made an announcement to the rest of the staff. There were murmurs of approbation, followed by a short exchange. Then Kevin returned, stuck his head around the door and asked, ‘Is it true that at western parties, you don’t get a meal?’

‘Yes,’ said Peter. ‘You get party nibbles, but the main idea is to drink, dance and talk. Tell them they should all have their dinner before they come’.

Kevin retreated and conveyed this information to the astounded company. Murmurs of amazement, curiosity and mystification were heard, possibly due to Kevin’s attempts to render the phrase ‘party nibbles’ into Chinese, which I imagine would pose a challenge for the most accomplished translator.

A couple of weeks elapsed and, like I say, I had seriously started to go off the idea. Peter occasionally let slip that someone at work had ‘mentioned’ the party, or ‘asked about’ the party, and tried to float some tentative questions about what we should buy, but I refused to be drawn.

Then at the beginning of this week, Peter was walking past the main office when he heard animated conversation and laughter from within. He walked in, keen to see what excitement was unfolding, and the conversation stopped. The Chinese people looked at him, then at one another, then back at him. He looked at Kevin, who explained, ‘We were just talking about your party. Everyone is really looking forward to it!’

‘Oh?’ said Peter, a little alarmed by the obvious air of excitement in the room, stealing an anxious glance at Eileen. Eileen is a bobbysocked lass from the next office whom I have yet to meet, but who apparently behaves like the love-child of Tigger and an entire troupe of cheerleaders. Mercifully, on this occasion, she seemed relatively subdued.

Another Chinese girl spoke shyly to Kevin. ‘She says, is it really true she can bring her husband?’ he translated.

‘Oh yes’, replied Peter expansively. ‘Bring partners. Definitely!’

Another woman asked something in English which Peter didn’t hear but which produced gales of laughter from those who understood. On being asked to repeat it, she replied hysterically, ‘I said, can I bring my parents?!’

‘And there’s definitely no food?’ said Kevin.

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

What are these people expecting?? Is the whole of Harbin going to turn up in ball gowns and black tie, demanding a four-course banquet with stuffed boar’s head, foie gras and Beluga caviar? A magnum or ten of champagne? Do they think we’re hiring the London Philharmonic to play while they eat? Fatboy Slim to do the disco? Do they expect to see Cirque du Soleil jumping out of giant gold-leaf-edged cakes to gyrate on podiums while dwarves circulate with trays of cocaine? Honestly I’m not Freddie Bloody Mercury. (Sorry Fred, no offence up there, mate. I’m sure they were great parties.)

Clearly the concept of a party in someone’s flat is unknown to the Chinese and they’re intrigued to see what will happen. Perhaps they’re hoping for an orgy. I mean, if there’s nothing to eat – and they don’t drink much really, unless they’re eating or are in a club – what else is there to do?

Well, I’ve got news. They’re getting mulled wine (a concession to the approximate almost-Christmassiness of the date), mince pies if we can work out how to procure such a thing – but breath not to be held on that score – and Pringles. And possibly a few cubes of cheese and pineapple on sticks for a hint of ironic retro-Britishness. Not that anyone except us and Boss will realise we’re being ironic, but still. If we still feel up to teaching them the Gay Gordons - and provided there aren’t fifty of them – we might attempt some dancing. We will drink, and chat. And THAT’S IT.


But you know what? They’re all so damned enthusiastic about everything that I reckon it’ll still be the talk of the town for years to come.