918. Audrey was a snob

Audrey was a snob. She was having a dinner party. This wasn’t any ordinary dinner party; for example, Doctor and Mrs Girling-Johnstone would be there. Doctor Girling-Johnstone was an important gynaecologist, and although his wife was merely a receptionist for a law firm, having them for dinner was quite a catch.

Then there was Mabel Donnithorpe and Denise MacPherson. Everyone knew they were an item, but everyone pretended they weren’t. They not only added a degree of mysteriousness to a dinner party, they added a touch of frightful modernity. Who these days would dream of staging a successful dinner party without at least a token nod towards the rainbow community?

Jane and Archie Simpson were also on the list. Rumour had it that Archibald was destined for a knighthood in the New Year. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Audrey had inadvertently invited an ordinary person to her dinner party and the next thing he was a knight of the realm?

Audrey planned the occasion meticulously. Only wild meats would be devoured – she was calling it her “Wild Dinner Party”. It was a fabulous joke; wild boar, wild venison, wild duck. Of course, the cost of getting wild meat was exorbitant, but who cared? And the work required in preparation; the soaking, for example, of the meats in icy salted water to remove the gamey taste.

And then the flowers! Audrey paid four times as much for the table flowers. They were perfect! Simply perfection in a vase.

The guests arrived.

“Oh, Audrey, I don’t know how you do it!” said Angela Girling-Johnstone. “This wild meat is perfection. It’s so ungamey in taste. You’d swear it came from domestic animals. Divine!”

“Oh, Audrey,” swooned Archie Simpson. “The table flowers are so perfect I was convinced they were artificial.”

“They’re not silk?” exclaimed Mabel Donnithorpe. “Audrey, you’re a genius!”

Audrey was pleased. The extra cost of making wild game taste like meat from the supermarket and natural flowers look synthetic was worth every penny.

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882. I’m so tired of being rich

I’m so tired of being rich. People don’t realise how tedious money can become. I’ll give an example to illustrate what I mean.

Every day the cook would ask if there was anything special I would like for the evening meal. After a while – rather quickly actually – I ran out of ideas. I suggested to the cook that he make up his own mind, as long as he maintained his usual quality. That’s what he’s paid for. Well! You’ve no idea what happened! He served up a wild venison dish. I don’t like wild game particularly, and this meat was far too strong. It might’ve looked fancy, but … yuk! After that, I had to replace the cook with one who toned down the flavours a bit, thank heavens.

Then when my birthday came I said I was tired of all this fancy food and wanted something plain. Perhaps a rissole in a bun – something simple like that. What sort of salad would I like in the bun? A bit of red onion? No, no, no! Cheese? No, no, no! Just a rissole in a bun. Like poor people have every day.

So that’s what I got. It was disgusting. Never again. And it was a top-of-the-range bun. I now understand what poor people have to put up with all the time. I have instructed the cook: once a month, when he’s foraging for groceries, he’s to buy a spare tin of cat food and leave it in the Salvation Army bin at the supermarket. If the poor people don’t have a cat, I’m sure it would be a treat for them to eat it themselves.

Life is certainly more satisfying now that I’m doing my bit.

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