Christmas in July

Our fundraising committee met this week. (We’ve finally got a name – The MJs. We discovered that for middle names, there are 3 Jane’s, 2 Mary’s and a Joy!) We tossed around the old Christmas in July theme, which took me back to such an event a few years back.

It was a benefit for the special school and held at a reception centre in a far-away suburb more famous for its crime and low socio-economic status than its fancy function centres - in fact, its fancy anything. At $55 a head and drinks at bar prices, it wasn’t hard to rustle up 30 friends and head out – although one was most concerned about the dark car park behind a shabby shopping mall and the safety of their Jaguar!

The young bouncer, sporting the local hair cut of the moment - cropped close to his skull for the most part but delighting with a set of long and wispy rats’ tails down the back  - took his job very seriously, not allowing any of my middle-aged friends to enter without a ticket. I’ve never felt so dangerous!!

Once inside the venue, the fun continued: carpet that could be mistake for Velco as I had to tear my shoes from the spills of a hundred of prior events with every step, crumbling concrete stairs disguised with said sticky carpet, a mirrored wall with water romantically flowing down it, but so close to what would normally be the bridal table (on this occasion, the silent auction table), that every time I lent forward to look at something, my arse got wet – and I strongly suspect the brides of this area have arses much larger than mine.

I was reassured when I got to the bar to see that champagne was $12. Okay, it wouldn’t be French, but for 12 bucks you could expect a glass of something decent. I placed my order and paid my money. The barman slammed down a bottle - egads! Surprised, I looked at the label – it boasted the name of the venue.  Without sounding like a total snob, I had no idea you could get anything other than soda water that was that cheap with bubbles.

First course was soup; one orangy, one browny-green. “What is the soup, please?” enquired one of my guests. “I dunno,” said the waiter, with a tone that clearly implied why the hell should he and what a stupid question to ask, of all people, the waiter. Main was hot ham or turkey and dessert bought Christmas pud. All a little mysterious but tasty and plentiful and for $55 for 3 courses, excellent value.

And of course, in spite of all our trepidations and initial misgivings, it was a fabulous night. A great band got everyone up on the dance floor, the auctions raised cash for the school and we all had stories to dine out on for weeks to come.

Oh, and the Jag managed to survive too!