Horace’s 18th

I’m just getting over the weekend. Horace was 18 on Friday and requested a family dinner party. How lovely, you might say, she wants to spend her special time with her nearest and dearest. Yes, lovely, until you realise that there were a planned 22 diners. Actually, thanks to the rather feeble constitution of my cousins, there were a slightly more manageable 17 of us.

Among the guests was Queasy, and I have been prevailed upon to change her, and Horace’s names. Horace, is no longer horace-ontal. Not only that but her bedroom, as previously described in words and pictures, is now tidy, and has been for at least two weeks. Queasy, as far as I’m aware, hasn’t over indulged in alcohol lately, or perhaps she’s just more able to cope with it so I have to think of two new names.

Queasy will, from now on, be known as Wipm. This is not a reflection on her sexual inclinations but more her spelling ability which became evident on a caravan holiday this summer.

Horace’s name is a bit more tricky as she has ceased to be “The Teenager” and become, very suddenly, “The Young Woman”. I can’t think of anything witty to call her so for the time being she will be Verti (cal at last).

Catering for 17 at dinner is challenging for a peri-menopausal person of dubious mental powers and gave me the opportunity to add a couple of sort-of-spoonerisms to my collection. On one occasion I mentioned to Whiz that I needed to “earing-ise my organs” and on another made reference to that much travelled comedian “Rif Grease Jones” he will be a close relative of ex-page-3-girl Lucinda Lardy mentioned in a previous article. This all gave rise to much mickey taking by all, including myself but I do find it a bit baffling that a once articulate person can be induced through an imbalance of hormones to talk complete b!!!!cks.

I have recently been prescribed by the doctor with oestrogen patches and I�’mm holding out great hope that I will shortly be miraculously restored to my previous cerebral glory. Trouble is I can’t peel the back off ’em, partly because I can’t see. The joys of middle age eh? The instructions say that I should stick a patch to some part of my anatomy below the waist. I don’t think they mean on my ankle. I am not supposed to keep sticking it in the same place so I have an assortment of little round pink marks all over my ample hips and buttocks, and the bottom sheet of our bed is sporting an extremely sticky circle where a patch decided to change allegiance; Whiz keeps complaining that he sticks to it, hopefully he won’t get a high pitched voice. I should change the sheet but can’t as every other article of bedding is in the laundry following the recent ingress, congress and egress of 18th birthday guests.

Any way, we had an excellent party, the food was all hot and the drink flowed, unlike the chocolate fountains which sort of glooped. Other guests comprised my well known brother, the playwrite, Simon Mendes da Costa and my recently famous sister, the new voice of the speaking clock, Sara Mendes da Costa. These were hosted by their completely unknown older and much fatter sister, the as yet unpublished, married author. I wonder, should I call myself Mendes da Costa?