- Do invite as many people as you know, expecting half of them to be busy. Have almost all accept the invitation, giving you several sleepless nights over the forthcoming weeks about how you’re going to fit them all into your perfectly-formed, but definitely small flat.
- Have the landlady come to visit with the second carpenter to give a quotation for replacing the decorative shelves, meaning you and your boyfriend have to painstakingly remove every item that you’ve balanced oh-so-carefully from said shelves, and stack them in piles all over the sitting room floor. Delightful.
- The night before the party, discover that TFL in their infinite wisdom have planned all-weekend engineering works on the only tube line that serves your station. Have half your guests drop out due to the hassle.
- Have a premenstrually-incited and entirely unfairly prickly conversation with the boyfriend about the fact that he should have planned which canapés he was going to make earlier than noon on the day of the party. Have him return from Borough Market two hours later laden with incredible goodies and a barrelful of inspiration. Feel guilty.
- Head to the supermarket to buy booze. Develop thumpy headache. Snap some more at boyfriend. Feel guiltier.
- Return home with booze and a migraine. Retire to a darkened room in tears, not wanting to entertain the possibility of missing one’s own housewarming, but unable to breathe or move one’s head on the pillow without causing oneself intense pain.
- Hear the first guest arrive (quietly) and hear him gently and without fuss prep canapés and mix drinks and do everything your boyfriend hasn’t had time to do because he headed out to Boots, without your knowledge, to buy you the most hardcore painkillers available without a prescription.
- Make enough of a recovery in record time to allow you to shower, dress, make yourself up and do your hair (whilst aforementioned brilliant guest quietly gets on with things) still whilst your head throbs, but without throwing up, and be ready in the kitchen, drink (of water) in hand before anyone else arrives.
- Have wonderful enough friends that they’ll schlep from the outer reaches of North West London, all the way – and Victoria Line-lessly – to Brixton despite having another party to head to on the same evening in Old Street. Or whooping cough.
- Dole out enough gin and tonic that even the staunch Lefties are merrily chatting away to even those with Tory tendencies, and the canapés fly off the plates.
- Dole out enough gin and tonic that by 1am, people have considerable hits of the munchies having devoured the canapés far earlier in the evening, and one’s boyfriend heads to the kitchen to whip up emergency bruschetta and plates of Mediterranean nibbles.
- At about 2.30am after the last guest has gone home, head to bed less throbby than you’ve been all day, full of Isle of Mull cheddar and olives, sending up a short prayer of thanks to Dionysus that none of the red got spilt on the carpet, and that oh-so-glamorous plastic cups mean there’ll be minimal washing up tomorrow morning.
- The less said about the vast amount of single malt consumed, the better.
I give up.
2 hours ago