PARTIES Part III

In her new post-divorce state, Bloggiana has been galloping down the west-coast mainline with almost indecent frequency. Bloggiana, I ask her, what are you up to in London this week? Bloggiana glances up sheepishly from her Cranberry, her index finger looking alarmingly tremulous, almost as though it were suffering from Repetitive Strain Injury. Not sure, the old girl replies in a very small voice indeed. I wink conspiratorially at Our Dog. It is hard to imagine that Bloggiana is braving the Pendolino for any reason other than to attend more Parties.

In Bloggiana’s absence, Our Dog and I spend a quiet week sitting together in the parlour. On the sofa, Our Dog picks at sticks lodged in his interior. At the table, I cut up apples and make batch upon batch of Apple and Apricot Chutney. Twigs tumble, cores roll, peelings glide, pips fly. The big pan steps up to its pickling plate, the Expensive Cooker joining in with relish and soon the air is thick, and the curtains dewy, with promise. Cooking over, it is time for bottling and now jamjars roll out de-brand-labelled, spruced up, perkily awaiting their new responsibilities. Our Dog farts comfortably into the upholstery, munching on one or two small pieces of Leylandii which he seems to have overlooked yesterday. And I warm the jars, cut out small circles of greaseproof paper, start spooning the chutney into its new place of rest.

Days fly by in this mode. Our Dog, ponging affably and self-grooming in a detached kind of way, is content to watch me. While I am content to be watched, never happier than when contemplating a sea of brown sticky goo and dreaming of eating it by the ladleful, with cheese.

But all chutney dreams must come to an end, especially as it turns out when Bloggiana comes home early. Bloggiana, I ask with bated breath, how were those parties? Bloggiana looks at me, her hooded smile Sphinx-like in its inscrutability and I confess I have no idea what she is about to say next.

But suddenly I find that Bloggiana’s extraordinary narrative skills are transporting me to a Bayswater salon, to a singles drinks party. In the background are crowds of Single Men and Single Women. In the foreground, gripping his and hers matching cocktails, are Bloggiana and a tall man in a blazer. Bloggiana is looking her very best. Her high heels bestow her with an elegance (and a flat stomach) that we are not used to seeing when she is wandering about the livery yard in britches. Her skin looks clean and her hair is free of straw. The Tall Man in Blazer sounds Irish, his rich booming voice enveloping Bloggiana, shrouding her from the unseemly mass beyond.

So what happened next? I say to the old girl, riveted. Well, says my old friend, the thing is, she says, Yes, Blazer Man was undoubtedly good looking; and I felt pretty certain he was prosperous; and no doubt to all intents and purposes the man was well-connected. But I have to say that in other departments, the man fell damnably short of the mark. I mean for a start, continues Bloggiana, he appeared to have no idea about what it is like to stand in an overcrowded Bayswater salon in high heels. (I timidly point out that perhaps that is no bad thing, but Bloggiana is not for listening). For another, he seemed absolutely furious at being introduced to me because the introduction cut across the narration of his life story which was clearly dearer to him than anything else. For a third, his voice was so loud, I still have tinitus. And worst of all, says Bloggiana, and at this point her voice dips to an unheard-of low, he failed at any point throughout our encounter to notice how empty my glass was.

We are sitting in the parlour, the three of us. Our Dog has extracted a mouthful of sticky willies from his nether parts which he is spitting like ball-bearings one by one onto the carpet. I am at my desk, trying to conjure up new slogans to fit in with our 'Chutney Rhyming Slang' campaign. Bloggiana is at the table, lighting up a cig, then taking the cig to a map of the London underground – and planting a firm black circle on an area roughly on the spot where I imagine Bayswater should be. It seems the west coast line may be free from Bloggiana's advances for some time to come.