Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

 

  A SURPRISE DINNER PARTY

On Monday after Crichton vouched-safe that he’d invited Inky and Sally for dinner. Inky Penypres (pronounced like the trench magazine) may be have been his best friend since school and they may have had a marvellous time together watching their alma mater win the boat race, but would it have harmed him to tell me sooner?

I had to endure a very unpleasant interview with Cook. Frankly no one is more vexed than me (apart from Cook of course). It was short notice, yes, and Monday is her evening off, but there’s no need for rudeness. When I suggested a simple menu of cheese soufflé, Beef Wellington, Isles Flotantes and finishing up with a Welsh Rarebit… she got quite shirty. To cut a long story short, we ‘agreed’ on an antipasti platter, Lamb Tagine with couscous, and a poached pear plus a sherry trifle for dessert. This, as a sop to Crichton… (for whom I think Cook holds a secret amore despite his unreliability). When I mentioned the savoury or at least a cheese board, she just sniffed and muttered that she would to check the traps for cheddar after she'd attend to her pressure cooker.

There was no time to get a proper party together, but Bunty and Derek were coming for drinks anyway and I called Monica and persuaded her and Douglas to make up the numbers. 

It’s always a worry that she will spoil the evening by giving graphic details of Isolde’s pregnancy, but beggars can’t be choosers.

   Cometh the hour, cometh the Penypres’s…well, ten to the hour, if you please. 

I’ve always known Inky had no manners, but I thought Sally would have more sense than to arrive early. I herded them in the drawing room with a G and T apiece while Crichton got into his second-best corduroys, (Brexit having found the new plum coloured ones early in the day) and ran kept them company until the others arrived.

   Cook’s efforts had not been in vain. The selection of charcuterie and olives, stuffed pimentos etc, from that little delicatessen in Bank St, seemed to please, and the lamb was delicious. I saw Crichton about to baulk at the couscous but managed to silence him with an eyebrow before Cook noticed. The pears were somewhat crunchy, but the trifle went down in a trifle. We all laughed at that little joke. 

We were all mellow and enjoying Brexit’s antics with a bread roll under the table, while Inky gave us a fine impression of Theresa May, when Monica got her phone out. I was  too slow to head her off and before we could stop her, she was showing pictures of Isolde’s enormous belly straining out of a skin-tight T-shirt and leggings. Believe me, it left very little to the imagination. She isn’t due for another month so I’m sure there will be more like that to come. 

   Not surprisiningly, the party broke up quite soon after that and I went to congratulate Cook, while Crichton took the dogs out for a walk . He must have been enjoying the night air he didn’t come back for hours.

Crichton Comments

   Not a bad dinner on the whole apart from Monica’s dreadful obstetric anecdotes. Inky really made me howl with his impersonation of Ann Widecombe.

No potatoes with the lamb for some reason. Some sort of nasty gravel instead, but trifle was one of Cook’s best.

The evening was somewhat marred by The Bloody Sausage. He got away from me in the dark and was half way to Hereford before I could catch him. I think I shall order one of those electric shock collars. Little tyke. 

Gin

Amontillado

Pinot Grigio (2)

Chassagne Montrachet, 2008 (3)

Château Liot Sauternes 

Madeira and liqueurs

I had asked Cynthia to record the boat race…not such a mighty task one might think. It was foolish of me to entrust such a task to a wife with no technical ability whatsoever. She had instead, supplied me with two very old episodes of the High Chaparral. These I watched… they were really jolly good.