The Summer Party

Here goes ' it's the summer party' again. The one I'm dragged along too every year. Like it or lump it. Until the clock struck eighteen minutes past the year two thousand and fourteen. A year when a ghost popped out of nowhere and turned the clock back. Then, I was hidden under a bed instead. Are you curious ? Come on inside this story to find out more.

In the month of August a gentleman with a fine English country manor, about an hour out of London. He'd caught a lucky shot on a gold pot. He hosted parties in the summer every year. On the dot, same day same time. Invited all his friends to eat allot and drink wine. Be ever so merry and talk nonsense. I was dragged along, like it or not, by a man I was head over heels about. It was one of those situations we endure for love.

The summer party was being held in a country manor house full of eccentrically colourful guests. One could not depict this party as dull. However, under the silver-lining, there is always much gossip to be whispered. I being the girlfriend of a wealthy lawyer, who was two-timing his wife at the time did raise some eyebrows. Don't ask how I got into that syndrome ? Not now .My lover in question was very proud to show me off to his crowd. The crowd, being on this English-side of the fence. His other fences had tougher nails, of which I can lead you down the garden path at another moment in time.

I was led to a Bentley. A car of distinction from Belgravia. Another vehicle from the 'BMW' range of cars, was to be the leading car in delivering our party of people on route to the English Manor house. The dude holding the event was a nineteen-sixties big timer, who had hit a gold truck in the sixties ball of fame. The threads to my lover were due to his legal lifestyle. We all require lawyers at some point in time. Henceforth, upon my long-term love affair was high-end. I was quire often invited to unusual parties. This being one of them.

An eccentric gentleman of wealthy Persian origin, led the party. We often dined with this particular billionaire amongst an exotic clan of people. He was a very colourful character. His road driving was equally colourful. Not one of the safest, I would say. I'm a sound automobile driver myself of great experience. We followed behind in the Bentley. My lover being of Jamaican hot blood, was well used to driving standards. He was skilled on Jamaican roads.

Upon arriving at the manor house. I was somewhat relieved. Other guests began filtering in. They ranged from various types. Rolling plump ladies who had indulged too much from high-life luxuries. More often than not, a wife. Wives for some reason seemed to let their waistline go. Blaming it on a health deficiency or t'other. Any excuse to eat. I surmise boredom may arise, if their other- half is out with his lady of the night or mistress. On a contrasting note, the guests contrasting elements were of stick skinny high-end tarts. One could put it describe in a sublime kind of way. Bearing in mind most of these dudes had already made a bed of gold. Therefore, the sky was their limit in choice from the female set. None from my recollection ever kept a girlfriend for long.

If these old timers did manage to keep a crumpet. They were paying for it. How much crumpet was required depended on the size of her cake. Men tend to become bored very easily in the high-life world. The more one can hold. The more to have and to hold, so to speak. My personal romantic department, was an unusual phenom-on. True love never comes without thorns.

As many people floated into this glass castle beautifully laid. I went into a trance like state. I for one danced like a free bird with white feathers. I floated through the gardens filled with greenery. Encompassed by overflowing flower-beds amongst streams by a lake with rippling waters. I soothed my senses from the big mad crowd.

The scents of many a carribeanne dish from a large busy kitchen filtered into the air, where a large plump lady prepared exotic food. The wine was poured as a colourful mixture of guests indulged in behind the table gossip, of sorts.

In all good time, the guests were invited to be seated. I sat next to my world. The man I adored. Jealous eyes glided around me. I had hooked the best man by far. Or he had hooked me, in-fact, is a better way of placing the dart in the board. In my opinion. Well I was head-over heels in love. However, I was viewed as my lovers arm-candy. On looking around, I had no competition. I am always naturally demure. Sometimes, behind a big fat lady, is a lovely personality. I don't tend to judge a book by it's cover. My common denominator in life.

Everyone was seated. Laughter filled the air. You know those kind of party tables where people are all competing with the other person on the left or right. Digging for catchy things to say. Usually, the most appalling jokes get told that bore the socks of one.

Those seated try to compete with the others conversations. In these scenarios, in my opinion the best speakers keep their tongues tied. As a writer I know how to converse, but to be totally honest, in a scenario like the one herewith. It's a waste of time.

For example there was a BBC producer on the table who would not shut up for the life of me. No one could get a word in. He was a large rounded big-bellied man who had to be the centre of attention. Nobody was the slightest bit interested in his mumbling grumbling.

Low and behold the Persian billionaire who had chaperoned us to this idyllic location. The one who had taken the lead on the ' M4 ' .A motorway out of London towards the country estate. He was also rather well-rounded in appearance, but more so, just at the belly. It hung out of his trousers. Such a wonderful man. He possessed, a really sparkling personality. No one could ever comprehend what he was saying as he spoke so fast with strong Persian coated American dialect.

He had married a rather rounded American woman who looked like the back side of a bus. He always had a bag full of about nine girlfriends spread from port to port.

he and his wife had an open-relationship. The large American lady and the Persian billionaire I'm signally now. One day, I'd been honoured to party on his yacht in Monte-Carlo. I was on the arm of my one and only. The lawyer, just in-case you need a refresh. At that moment in time the Persian billionaire never had his fat wife with him. He was rather taken by a lovely young lady, who I believe had a genuine soft-spot for him. For once, he had hit the right note in love. He sadly then buggered it all up as she wanted a little more commitment. Things like babies, which is only normal for young women to want. This usually scares men with minds only on the pudding off faster than your legs can carry you.

I hate to be blunt but that woman .The one who was the size of the backside of a bus. One could not fit in a bed so they must have done rolls together. Must be impossible to do a number sixty-nine with such large rolls. I mean where would one find the right switch ?

The tables silence streamed as on' Mr BBC Producer' going on and on round and round the houses. We were all yawning. Some of us were internally snoring.

The end game was that ' Mr Persia', could not take anymore. Be it, he was used to being the leading man in almost all my experiences of such dull millionaires on one party spread. He always had the edge, even though one couldn't understand a single word he said. He was like a beautiful camel from Arabian nights. The sound of his voice sounded like music from that film. Which is quite a different sound to boring BBC producers who are only used to giving sour orders.

Out of the blue on blocking ' Mr Producer from the BBC'. He was stopped dead in his tracks. Mr Persia's hair was standing end. He rolled out a corny joke about dating ladies of the night. Hookers, in other words politely putting it. In Dubai's standards. Dubai being one of his favourite places on the planet he hung out in. This did the trick. Mr BBC was somewhat intrigued. New television documentaries were one of his fortes. The table silenced temporarily.

I cannot say in all this summer party grandeur, of big men with little brains. I was ever bored. I felt-otherwise detached. Only bringing me to the understanding how much my mental health overrides them all. My mind was above the whole blinking lot of them. As a real lady of class that I am. I managed to keep myself awake and never go off snoring.

In the middle of this summer pickle, upon the end of the table summit. A summer party that it was. Gordon Bennet, thank the lord one could get up from the table at last. Move around escaping the bores. I, being intrigued of the mind of the BBC mans wife. She, a lady rather like myself, had taken the opinion to keep one's mouth shut in this dining charade, The safest protocol. She had been silently delicate upon the table of false conversation as had I.. I was devoured, relived, overcome to find, she had a good brain. I took her into a corner and spoke dignified correct English linguistics, of good old fashioned correct formation. There is always hopefully one good egg in the pie. Find it if you can it usually takes sometime. Even if it's at the end of the ' Summer Party'. I did enjoy the last conversation with ' Mrs BBC' and the accompanying good wine.

Just like summertime always comes confused with rain storms.

Delila Reddit ( pen name)

Yvette Louise Melech

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