It wasn't that The Cat's Mother had been duped by The Cat and The Boy into buying a big bottle of Jagermeister ("I don't know what it is" she protested when my jaw hit the ground)
It wasn't the loud, pumping music in a darkened room.
It wasn't even the general concept of The Cat and 18 of her friends sitting round the table to celebrate her eighteenth birthday (actually it's next weekend, not this)
It was more that the 'girls' when they turned up wore the highest heals and the shortest skirts, with half the Boots make-up counter on their faces that terrified me. At the tender age of seventeen, some eighteen, these girls knew just how to strut their stuff..and did it with aplomb.
Of course, in Essex, it is not unfair to say that the girls tend to grow up early and understand that if you've got it, flaunt it...it's just better when they do it on the high street rather than in our dining room.
We'd asked someone to come and cook for the 18+1 on Sunday, in the (vain) hope that the evening before a school day would mean moderation in all things. The Cat's Dinner Party is the first part of celebrations that will carry on throughout the week until she hits the grand old age of eighteen, and I'm glad to say we and they survived very well. The gentle chatter rose to a crescendo as the evening progressed...The Cat's Mother and I hid in another room...too terrified to leave in case we were cornered by one of the marauding teenagers. But nothing was broken, nothing was spilt (well not much anyway)...and by 11.30, they'd all gone
As far as we can tell, it was a splendid evening for everyone. And a momentous one. A symbolic moment for putting away childish things.
We, the adults stood outside looking in...
