So. I attended a 60th birthday party on Saturday night, in Leopardstown (the deep Southside) and stayed up till 3 am. Yesterday I was still recovering. This is the final proof, if any were needed, (which it wasn't), that I am Utterly Pathetic.
The invite to the party contained the words designed to strike terror into the heart of an introvert: Bring your party piece. It was, sure enough, a bit - you know - character-building. The place was full of cool, international couples (including a real French woman who spoke English with a Yorkshire accent) who knew how to entertain - actually hold the floor - sing, play the cello, or piano, as in parties of old. Not like us, who sandwiched between the X-factor generation and the self-sufficient, party piece one, are basically useless. We need to be entertained. We do not do the entertaining. No, no.
Thoughts arising from the afore-mentioned Experience/Party:
- It is possibly time I learnt how to sing a song. (Like on my own, not with the entire choir, which luckily was present to lurk within thereby escaping the Taking of my Turn). Singing solo may not cause instant fatality, I am led to believe?
- Or, maybe I could polish my caricature skillz, instead. Not everyone can Take It, though. It would be generally preferable to avoid making people wail because their hair/waistline is not like that. (Aside: I read once that Gerald Scarfe, tired of hearing the protests of his subjects, drew himself and reported that yes, he was offended. He hurt his own feelings.)
- Hanging with The People in their Sixties was lovely and brilliant. They have tons of life experience, but are still healthy and strong enough to squeeze the life out of every moment - like, staying up till 2am in the morning, apparently effortlessly? Like. Adopt as Role Models. Emulate.
- Alcohol gives some people Performance Fever, a syndrome where they keep saying: Ooh! I know! And burst into song. This can go on for a long, long time.
- Some other people go really quiet.
- Related arising need: a good listening expression to arrange my features into: genial, responsive, not facetious, neither a rictus of despair, envy, embarrassment or boredom. As it was, I cycled manically through these: