Party Like It's 2022

          The word ‘nightmare’ has been so over-used that its currency is now debased. A new adjective is required for truly panic-inducing dreams, though I am hopeful of never having need of it myself. The first nightmare I remember was in my infancy, when mother heard my screams and rescued me from a giant boulder that was about to crush me. (Was I sharing a bed with my brother that night?) Since then, there have been few that I recall, though many’s the night I have had disagreeable dreams – the sort that put you in ill-humour until way after breakfast. Just the other night I had one such. I forget the story, but I do remember thinking it tedious. It seemed to last forever but when it ended and I looked at the clock, it was barely two a.m. and, faced with the prospect of resuming sleep in the throes of episode two of what promised to be a long-running series, I turned on the radio instead. That night, tempus did not fugit. Time only flies when you’re having fun: or when it’s bypassing you.

          It certainly flew at the party I attended last weekend: I stayed up until 5 a.m. without once glancing at a clock. I must have been having fun. It’s hard to define just why I enjoyed it so much, since my memories are blurred by alcohol, but there is no subsequent evidence I am aware of that I got into trouble of any kind. Alcohol-free parties are non-existent in my social circle, so I know what to expect and how to handle it. I have been to ‘dry’ parties – events where the stuff is proscribed by religion – and felt that not only did they go on too long but that they also lacked any sort of dramatic crescendo. They just sort of drag on then peter out. Whoever dreamt up a god that is intent on making parties dull must have had an antisocial bent. The ancient Greeks had the right idea when they invented Dionysus, a god who encouraged wine-drinking. The Romans also thought this a good idea and continued the splendid tradition with their very own version, Bacchus.

          Last weekend’s party was a covid-catchup, a delayed 21^st to which another had been added, along with their parents’ umpteenth wedding anniversary. Consequently, the invitees were a mixed crowd. The trick was to catch up with family and friends while not ignoring less familiar faces – such as the entourages of the former twenty-one-year-olds. Alcohol serves well as a social lubricant in such a situation, easing introductions and adding a splash of bonhomie, but it has a sting in the tail: its ability to impair one’s judgment. And whilst I like to think I played a blinder in the introductory phase, it’s true that, later, I danced quite a lot and with more enthusiasm than elan.

          And there is another party hazard to contend with – the table-seating plan, a potential headache for hosts and pot-luck for guests. Wedding parties are especially prone and I have been to a few where my connections were so tenuous that my guest status was ‘plus-one’. Seated at a table full of strangers, everyone’s social skills are tested to the max. This time was one of those. However, despite the fact that I knew none of them and was old enough to be their grandfather, my table-full of twenty-somethings was willing to engage in conversation, temporarily, at least. I have no doubt that the booze helped.

          The next day, my throat felt sore and my voice was hoarse. It seems I talked as much as I danced. I had fun; time flew. But there may have been someone there who was on the wagon and, instead, experienced the opposite, a slow-moving nightmare. If so, I can only extend my condolences.