The Garden Party
Or what happens when you let an author loose
… A humorous short story about English garden parties…
The following tale was inspired by the classic British comedy series, ‘Stella Street’…
Deep in the bowels of the palatial mansion that I call home, lies my ‘prison study’. You may have heard me refer to it in a previous post and it is the place where I spend most of my time when I’m trying to write. In fact, I’m sitting here right now, on a splinter-ridden, one-legged stool, watching the water drip off the damp stone walls and run down my monitor screen. I could wipe it off, but there’s no point, as another rivulet will be along in a moment and besides, the screen might get blurry.
Anyway, I am required to sit here for at least twelve hours each day as part of the agreement that I foolishly made with the United Brethren of Illustrious Scribes (UBIS) and their parent organisation, the Global Authors Guild (GAG), when I first became a ‘struggling author’. So, every day, I enter the prison study and shut the heavy iron door behind me, trying to suppress the shudder that threatens to rise up inside as I hear the dreaded time-lock activate. Then it’s down to work, trying to craft high-quality blogs that will entertain and delight readers from all walks of life, hammering out as much of my latest novel as my tortured brain will permit and of course, Tweeting, Facebooking and social media’ing endless inanities into the Intersphere, in the hope that I will be able to attract a follower, or dare I say it, a customer to my website.
However, although this sounds like a pretty bleak and foreboding existence, it does occasionally have its upsides and last week, my masters released me from my bondage a couple of hours early, so that I could attend a garden party that was being held by Brian May, one of my neighbours and owner of the local hairdressing salon. Now, Brian is a lovely chap and when he holds a garden party it is legendary. But he is known to be a bit of a queen, so you need to be careful about how you dress and what fragrance you choose to wear. I chose a nice, pale green ‘off the shoulder’ number, with a touch of Dior, so I knew that I was fine. Anyway, when I got there, the party was already well underway and I was very pleased to be able to catch up with Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, who run the garage down the road. They’d had my car in for some work for a couple of weeks and I wanted to find out how things were going. Unfortunately, the pair of them had already got properly stuck into the hotdogs and Pinot Gris, so I couldn’t get much sense out of them. Honestly, those boys always overdo it, they just can’t get no satisfaction.
After an overly friendly peck on the cheek from Mick, I left them be and wandered over to the drinks table, where I bumped into Johnny Depp, our local greengrocer. He’s a wizard with a set of knives that’s for sure and was dicing cucumbers by the dozen, tossing them expertly into a jug of cold Pimm’s No1, which he was draining as fast as he was filling it. We had a bit of a chat about the current state of the greengrocery business, which unfortunately is struggling and may explain why Johnny has recently developed a fondness for the booze and partying, but he did mention that he was going to the Caribbean shortly, so maybe the break will do him some good.
While I was chatting to Johnny, we were joined by Morgan Freeman, the village butcher. Incidentally, his shop is right next door to Johnny’s greengrocers if you’re ever looking for it. I had to give him a pat on the back, the poor fellow. He’s always been the serious type, but we’ve gotten along fairly well over the years and he’s always been extremely generous when weighing out his meat, to me at least. Anyway, a couple of girls from the next village made some pretty unpleasant allegations about him a year or two ago and since then he’s had no end of trouble, including an unwanted Police investigation from Inspector Huey Lewis, which made the news and no doubt about it. I must say that I was rather surprised, but glad to see him out and about, as he had become something of a recluse for a while there.
Glancing around Brian’s back garden, I was quite impressed by the turnout. Matt Damon, who owns the organic farm with all the poly-tunnels on it was chatting happily to Gwyneth Paltrow, mobile beautician, over a glass of Merlot, although I suspect that there might have been something else in his drink, because Matt was starting to look a bit like a Martian from where I was standing. Major Tom Cruise, from the local army base, was also in attendance, looking fantastic in his uniform with all the shiny buttons and medals on it. I must admit that I had always thought he was taller, but then I’d only ever seen him from a distance before. Nonetheless, he was putting on a magnificent show, impressing a host of young ladies with one-armed push-ups, squats and a range of other extremely manly exercises, which for me would be a mission impossible. I was a bit concerned to see young Kevin Spacey, the wannabe journalist from the free weekly paper, taking such an interest in Major Tom’s athletic posing, but then I’ve always worried about him. What with his religious upbringing and all that, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already committed all of the seven deadly sins and is working on the next bunch.
As always at these type of gatherings, there was a moment of unpleasantness when Gwyneth’s boyfriend, Robert Downey Jr, who owns the local gym and is always training for an Ironman event, started picking on Matt. Thankfully, however, Father Bill Nighy, our well-loved vicar stepped in and calmed things down before they got out of hand. He really is a wonderful chap and so dedicated to the local parish. I mean he’s there all day, every day, locked away in the crypt, praying and then out and about every night, prowling the village in search of unworthy souls that he can send to the Underworld. I wish I had his dedication, not to mention his complexion.
As the evening wore on and the sun dropped below the sky, things started to get a little bit silly. Pint-sized Danny DeVito, our resident undertaker, had obviously had a bit too much wine during the afternoon and was mocked unrelentingly by Roy Orbison, the blacksmith, for talking to a garden gnome for half an hour non-stop. Sting, who works at the little hotel in the centre of the village, arrived on his moped and caused a stir by trying to steal some of Major Tom’s girls from him. He nearly succeeded by the way, until Tom pushed him into a plate of blue turtles and someone called the Police.
Finally, with the garden party in full swing, the place was momentarily stunned into silence with the arrival of local bank manager, Harvey Weinstein, with a gaggle of young ladies of dubious origin in tow. He’s been a very naughty boy, that one, but because he’s got everyone’s savings locked up in his bank, no one can do anything about him. So, according to the excellent book entitled ‘The Freddy Mercury Guide to Successful Garden Parties and Marquee Events’, we simply ignored him and carried on talking amongst ourselves.
Well, I don’t know what time it was or how much I had had to drink, but the stars were just beginning to fade when Brian called an end to the garden party. Just at that moment, when I thought that I might be able to sneak another quick glass of Chardonnay from the drinks table, a heavy hand landed with a bone crushing thud on my shoulder and I was spun around into the impassive, ape-like face of one of my UBIS masters’ underlings. How they manage to get a gorilla to wear sunglasses, let alone shoehorn it into a suit is beyond me, but there was no arguing with the brute and probably for the best, I was escorted home to my prison study, where the door was slammed shut behind me.
So, there you have it. The life of a writer may seem like quite a solitary and unrewarding pursuit to some, but we do occasionally get out and when we do, it’s always fun!
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