For the first time in my life I am going to arrange dinner for some people who aren’t a part of my family or my clutch of direct or indirect relatives. Coming up in a few weeks, there is the Leaver’s Ball, and yours truly is part of the organising committee for it, and in order to organise that, I am organising a dinner/supper thing at the house on Wednesday for the members of the committee. The members are me, three other pupils, and two members of the school staff.

poshdinnerThis means that I am quietly going quite insane here, and I have lists for a million things that must be done before Wednesday, and which probably should have been done long ago.

One of the items is that every single table-cloth in the house should be removed, ferried over to Auntie’s house, and washed. Another thing is that every single trace of the dogs should be removed. No crunchy pellets on the floor in the kitchen from when Watson has eaten. No dog-fur on the sofa. It would be best if Mark and I had plastic surgery as well so that we became the perfect physical specimens of humanity, but that may be asking a bit too much.

The absolutely worst thing is that I have no idea what I should make Mark cook for the dinner, and I keep thinking: too plain, too fancy, too strange, too exotic, too Indian, or too British about the dishes. I have come up with and dismissed about two dozen dishes, from Shepherd’s Pie to Tikka Masala. Each seems inappropriate for what I want to achieve.

When the in-laws, or Auntie, or Stephen come here to eat, it seems so simple. Just put food in front of them, step back, and just go with the flow. Now the element of inviting strangers into the house seems to have added a dimension that demand a perfectionist approach because what they will expect is the usual thing with people our age. Not much at all. I want to shine. I want to impress. I want them to talk about it in two weeks. That will make it much easier to get what I want for the ball. πŸ™‚

Of course, Mark’s response to the whole thing is to plant a kiss on the top of my head, and call me mental. But, in this town of Dursley clones, there’s going to be one household that stands apart. Mine. And it’s going to start with a posh, insane dinner for seven.

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