The 15th year of being an expatriate hit E@L yesterday - yes April Fools Day, everybody laugh. But who is the joke on? E@L booked the pool-side BBQ area and called up 6 or 7 hundred of his most intimate friends of whom 6 or 7 turned up.
But now it's 4am and the departing guests seem to have left most of the worst parts of the evening on his dining room table.
E@L looks at BBQ cold cuts and the soggy salads and the plastic cups of - OMG what is that? These trays of snags and elaborately marinated chicken wings and spiced steaks; long anticipated soon forgotten points of Epicurean delicate essen, cooked to perfection under supremely challenging conditions in extreme situations (E@L has no hairs left on the back of his left hand). There were missing ingredients and lost sauces, but it all went down well enough one guesses. Nobody complained of not having enough chicken wings, hey! But there are the foggy times; the usual did I put my tongue into what, whom, when?...
More crucially, it's the odd "did-I-really-open-that?" bottles of vintage red, half drunk and even less appreciated, lying on their side.
What a fucking mess. Gin. Sprite. Tahini. Ugh.
The Aussie Rules football replay is finally finished and E@L staggers up to looks around. How to sort out this fuck train-wreck? Without his fall-back position - Call The Mouse! - he reaches for Bruce's Rules for Tidying Up Efficiently, viz:...
"If, within the next 24hrs, you are not going to drink it, eat it, or fuck it, throw it out."