AFTERNOON TEA-HEE

My mother was 85 last Saturday. Not wanting to risk holding out until her 90th, I decided to throw her a ladies afternoon tea party as a little celebration. 11 ladies were invited, the oldest, but certainly not the least coherent, being 96. This is how the afternoon went:
2.59PM: Two kettles are filled and on standby. Three teapots have their lids off, teabags in place. The sugar bowl is a glistening mountain of sugar cubes - especially bought for the occasion - with polished silver tongs atop. A plate of iced biscuits in the shape of teacups and teapots neatly arranged sits ready to be stripped of its clingfilm cover.
3.01PM: The first guest arrives. It's Marjorie, my son's other grandmother and my ex-mother-in-law. As I usher her in she says she has been sitting in her car listening to Stevie Wonder, obviously for fear of arriving too early and confirming that old people are notoriously punctual. Waiting in the lounge is my mother, resplendent in a new turquoise number from the Damart catalogue. Marjorie takes first pick from the cobbled-together selection of chairs squeezed around the room to form a circle. Harvey makes the first pot of tea.
3.02PM - 3.10PM: All but two of the other guests arrive - Mum's friend Pat; cousins Rosalind and Sylvia; cousin-in-law Frances (she's Spanish you know)and my friend Jo (who I never see but has adopted my mother as her own). As the youngest, Jo gets the wobbly director's fold-up chair. Harvey makes two more pots of tea. I offer round the fancy biscuits. No-one takes sugar.
3.15PM: A flustered Marjory arrives (different spelling, different woman), the bus was late. I offer her a cup of tea, she goes off menu and asks for a coffee. In the kitchen Harvey rolls his eyes and reaches for the Carte Noir.
3.20PM: I notice that Lydia, the 96 year old upstairs neighbour, is missing from the party. Nervous glances betray a panic in the room but this is soon calmed by the suggestion that she has most likely fallen asleep. A quick phone call from my Mum awakens her from her afternoon slumber and she glides down in her stairlift to join us. It turns out Lydia does take suger, albeit only one lump. I no longer feel I've wasted my money on the sugar lumps.
3.30 - 4.00PM: While I lay the plates of bread canapes and savouries on the 1960s glass topped G-Plan coffee table (worth a few bob nowadays)everyone else remarks on the numerous bouquets that fill the room like a funeral parlour after a cold snap. Rosalind is spotted slyly comparing hers to the others sent, unaware that the headache-inducing lillies in her gift had been pulled out and disposed of earlier that day. No-one likes the goats cheese and Mediterranean canapes. Somebody sneaks an extra smoked salmon and cream cheese, leaving me without one. Harvey makes more tea.
4.00PM (until her last breath, probably): Cousin Rosalind dominates every conversation, opining on everything from declining A Level standards to the singing ability of a local entertainer. The older ladies sit silent, their eyes on their tea cups. All they want to discuss is the weather and what happened in Emmerdale.
4.30PM: A baby seagull, the size of a small dog, lands in the garden. On seeing its reflection in the lounge window, it waddles right up to the glass and begins to squawk incessantly. My mother, who loves all wildlife except seagulls and squirrels, jumps up from her chair and with arms flailing like windmills makes for the door to the garden to see off the bird. Panic ensues as friends and relatives hold Mum back. There's a mother seagull out there somewhere and she's ready to attack.
4.45PM: After a failed attempt by Mum to sneak out the side door, everything calms down. The baby seagull loses interest and flies off. I serve up assorted cup cakes and chocolate eclairs. Harvey makes more tea. Despite at least 5 cups each, no-one has had to use the toilet except me. I become concerned about Lydia's bladder control.
5PM: Tired of our catering stint, Harvey and I decide hurry things along to their conclusion by bringing out the birthday cake and bubbly. The two bottles of cava open, we both have a large glass before taking round to the guests. Harvey fields questions about his love life and job prospects with the skill of a diplomat.
5.30PM: Mum poses for photos cutting the cake but my photography skills let me down. The cake is out of shot, making the delight on her face and the large carving knife in her hand look like a still from The Shining.
5.45PM: Harvey makes his escape. Lydia glides back upstairs. I start to clear away plates. No-one shows any sign of leaving.
6.00PM: There are mutterings about making a move. No-one does. Cousin Rosalind regales us with the sorry tale of a woman whose house caught fire, after which she tripped and broke her neck, only to wake from the surgery to find that her husband had died of cancer. There's no more enjoyment to be had out of the afternoon after that. Everyone leaves.
9.00PM: I finish clearing up and join my mother in the lounge. She's knitting blanket squares to send to Africa and watching a recording of Bargain Hunt. I lie exhausted on the sofa and resolve to do it again next year.