Liveblogging a dinner party. Apparently.

[desperance]

I have opened the red wine, and put the white in the fridge.

I have laid the table.

I have listened to (all) the music.

I have fed the cats.

I have carelessly allowed the cats to steal more than they were originally permitted (came downstairs to find Baz lioning a home-made pork scratching (they go with the broccoli/mushroom/ham/blue cheese thing) while Mac chewed on some dug-out bread, which is fairly typical division of labour).

What more can I do? I'm stuck now. Can't start chopping mushrooms and ham, or I will just die under an effusion of cats; I need the guests to fend them off me. All the other cooking is pretty much done, and I am bored/restive/anxious/all three.

Peg is due to pick up Gavin at seven, but she will be late; Peg-and-Gavin are then due to pick up Gail by seven-thirty, but they will be later.

*twitch*

Comments

[szandara.livejournal.com]

I wish I was there to keep you company and eat some of the meal you described earlier.

I suggest you pour yourself a glass of wine and then stalk around the place, reading poetry out loud and making dramatic gestures. It'll keep you busy and amuse the cats.

[desperance.livejournal.com]

You are ahead of me, but barely. I have the wine; I can does stalking. As it happens, I did do the poetry-reciting thing earlier this evening, just because. (I have no memory, except for verse; there is more stacked up in my mind than any rational person would credit. And I like to recite. And there's nobody here, except as you say the cats, and they are used to this...)

[time-freak.livejournal.com]

You are as twitchy as me.


*twitch*