The Happiest Hour
One Friday night at the Clubhouse party we backed off towards the middle of the room, holding onto our drinks and watching a clamor of people that had formed a human wall at one end of the salon.
Had someone passed out? Was the crowd helping? We ambled over to the far end and peered around to see a hundred arms reaching and grabbing, twisting like an octopus in a desperate struggle.
What could cause such panic amongst mature, rich, well dressed inhabitants of a luxury development such as this?
Of course - it was the free finger food buffet.
A very tall young black boy dressed in crisp whites called to the crowd to make way.
He was carrying a big deep silver tray of mini pizzas, which he unloaded onto the table, only just making it out alive as they closed in after him like a voracious tide of starved rats.
A few people staggered away holding plates piled high, with enough to feed a small African village, and made their way to tables of waiting friends who leaned in, examined the offerings and selected morsels with lighting speed.
I made my way along the line, passing great bowls where the odd carrot stick lay lifeless, streaks of pink dip lay between beaten crushed lettuce leaves and the odd corpse of a squashed mushroom, left bleeding.
Huge empty platters were graveyards to a few silver dollies, sad bridesmaids discarded after the wedding feast.
Slithers of salmon scattered the white table cloth in a bid to escape, bundles of parsley became rolling tumble weed, looking for a corner to settle in - it was a pitiful sight.
Salvaging what we could, we shuffled towards crowded tables and spotted one spare chair, which Tim grabbed and forced me into.
The room was buzzing with members greeting each other like lost relations, while others sat staring, watching them and guarding their stash of hors d’oeuvres like gold.
It was like being in a war before the bombs had been dropped. It was pure panic, pure survival, and pure animal instinct - in luxury.
“Why are we here?” I asked Tim, who just shrugged his shoulders.
“To meet people,” he eventually replied.
Being with me made him see how absurd the whole thing was, and I felt sorry for him, as I bet up until now he had really enjoyed all those happy Fridays, and done very well at the hors d’oeuvres table, as he was a fighter…I had ruined all for him.