Welcome back, welcome back. As you might have noticed, we’ve spent the last couple of weeks dusting down the furniture and refitting a few bits and pieces; I may have mentioned it once or twice on the twitters, but I think I got away with it. And what better way to welcome everyone back, and of course to make a fuss of any newcomers, than to throw a cocktail party?
The last time I did this, I don’t think I had the benefit of wikipedia to help me navigate my way around your more obscure requests. It feels somewhat like cheating, or cheapening our efforts (“Start with wikipedia,” said Mr Grey, in that godawful book, thus ensuring that no self-respecting researcher would ever start there again).
As well as being a redcarpet launch party, this is of course a celebration of various anniversaries, including nine years for Stuart and Krissa, and ten (I think) for Anna and Bobbie. And indeed twas ten years ago to this very equinox that Pete took me out for a pizza and never let me go. That weekend we discovered that it was no use crying over spilt red wine, that a spider down your cleavage really breaks the ice, and that we had a surprising amount of stuff in common. Over the ensuing years we have laughed [hysterically, for example, at Ross Noble’s muslim women’s marching band], cried [especially when deprived of sufficient sleep, also sometimes because of wearing unsuitable shoes], and had a baby [see previous remark about sleep]. The baby is now six and a half years old and has just asked us what uborka means. Our lives have changed beyond all recognition, in brilliant ways that would never have happened without each other; I’ll take another few decades of this, please.
So I would like to make a toast to Pete, the love of my life, the rock steady bassline of this family, your handsome host this death-defying easter afternoon: to Pete, and death to the death of blogging. He’s drinking a large Caol Ila, and then probably another.
You may also have noticed the cute little drink-serving bot, @ubotka, specially adapted to carry a tray of cocktails without spilling it, as well as keep you informed of new posts and particularly amusing comments over there on the twitters. Since the bot has no gender, we will be using neutral pronouns for hum, which will become deeply confusing after a while. On hus tray at the moment, hu is carrying an Old Fashioned for the always glamorous Lori, a Purple Rain for the always gardening Graybo, and a Tequila Sunrise for the always gordon Gordon. More on the letter g will follow in a later post, but just to get you in the mood, our Gert has apparently ordered large quantities of goo.
We are delighted to have Vaughan at the party, celebrating with ribena and junior disprin, a combination known to the parents present as Calpol on the Beach; and the charmingly confused krissa, who is having a Manhattan, of course. And yes, who is that strange Englishman in your apartment? Could you pass him this scotch?
A couple of orders came in on twitter, which really, people, is not how it’s done; but as it’s been a while we’ll put them through this once. It is with great pompousness and circumscription that I announce the presence of Dr Pockless himself, and for the good doctor, Ubotka has an espresso with a Mars Bar slipped into it, as requested. And who is this? It’s merialc, and she’s getting married this year, and loads of us are going to get pissed at her wedding and dance like loons, oh yes. I recommend she start early with a Piña Colada. Mike in particular has expressed great excitement at the idea of a Real Bloggers’ Disco, but right now he’s tucked up with a Hot Toddy. Does K know about this?
Some of you may recognise Astaa, who has been around forever, but never ordered a cocktail before: Welcome to the dark side, and here is your Wallflower. This reminds me to remind you that next week it will be bring-a-friend cocktails; we’d hate to be accused of being cliquey.
Meanwhile, last Friday Lyle actually did ask us when we were going to start writing uborka again. Imagine our little innocent faces. He almost won this bucket of mojito. And for Mark, the multi-talented little ubotka has baked an entire tray of fondant fancies, which he can share with the missus but they might not be suitable for the wee ‘un. Are we going to need an uborka creche? Make a note, Pete. Oh and the g&ts are for Mark, long-lost ‘stee and sevitz.
Finally, fittingly, champagne-swilling Kate points out that we all seem to look a lot older. We do, we do. But so graciously and gloriously older.