Wednesday, 22 December 2010
"A Family That Parties Together..."
Of course this being Goa, it was less lukewarm canapes and £5 bottles of plonk, and more watermelon juice, Kings beer and veg thali's accompanied by little clay pots filled with curd. The husband even played a rousing duet of Jingle Bells with Dumpies guitar wielding kindergarten teacher as 'Santa Clause' (a huge tanned Spaniard) lumbered into the restaurant trying to escape the swarm of greedy little munchkins clustered at his feet demanding their presents.
I was none too surprised to discover that Dumpie was leading the charge and subsequently secured himself a front row standing room only place for the handing out of loot. Upon receiving his present he calmly ripped it open, revealing a cheap plastic taxi car whose roof rack busted within the first few minutes. (What do you expect when there are only three little toy stores in town, all with the same cheap plastic garbage, and you have a proviso of 100 Rupees per gift...basically £1.50!)
Despite my best 'vroom-vroom' sounds and energetic manhandling of said plastic junk, he was none too impressed with his little gift and spent the remainder of the party hunting for the now departed Santa in order to trade his gift for a better one. (Ah, if only that were allowed, no doubt there would be a queue longer than the boxing day one outside Selfridges, comprised of disgruntled housewives clamouring to exchange power tools, ill-fitting lingerie and Paris Hilton perfume...)
The husband made himself fairly scarce throughout most of the night, choosing instead to chat to the most interesting person in the room. No, not a fellow parent, but rather the somewhat elderly dutch dj of somewhat indeterminate sex, puffing away on a suspicious looking homemade cigarette...Apparently he/she owns 11,000 odd pieces of vinyl, has lived here in Goa for the past seven years and never made it home last night (this last little tidbit gleaned when seeing her/him ride by on a scooter this morning in the same bright blue t-shirt)
Fair enough. I suck at small talk and so was doing my best to keep myself to myself, whilst monitoring the dessert table where Dumpie once again stood in prime position, waiting to get his grubby little paws on the first slices of the chocolate cake. He was welcome to it. I know from experience (and a tiny bite was conclusive) that Goans just don't 'do' good baked goods. It was an eggy, bland creation which looked like is should have been oozing with dark chocolate goodness and instead left me mildly gagging and Dumps spitting up his remains onto my Havaianas underneath the table.
Aside from the general chaos resulting from a plethora of wild haired, sandy children running around tables and occasionally escaping outside onto the sand in a 'Lord of the Flies-esque' formation, it was a fairly moderate affair. Even the sight of two progressive nursing mothers (their children easily able to talk, walk, and probably do beginners calculus) failed to elicit any real interest from my roving eyes.
Ho ho ho...