What makes a good party?

This past Saturday witnessed one of my most successful parties in Kenya to date.

We had a drinkipoos to celebrate Christmas; I put on a modest spread of peanuts, salami, crisps, sausages on sticks and a few shortbread biscuits.  As is customary guests were encouraged almost to obligation to bring a bottle of something intoxicating and come ready to enjoy the evening to the fullest.  I had arrived back from Lagos the evening before a tad tardy due to "late arrival of the incoming aircraft" nonsense and a torrential downpour over the runway in Nairobi causing the charming pilot to abort an attempted landing, veering southwards, banking for half an hour and then finally touching down to the rapturous applause of the Nigerian passengers; she erred on the side of caution and I suppose they (and I) were grateful for that.  At least I got home in one piece.

I digress.

So the night before, still on Lagos-time, I had rearranged the furniture to make more space - I was expecting quite a few to furn up - and started to get plates, cups, glassware at the ready.  Luckily, my helper, Emmy, had already assisted in this - which was a Godsend. 

Then on the day itself, I adorned several vases with various ikebana-esque arrangements - some of which looked like the blooms had been cast from 10 metres away.  A bit more furniture moving, then slicing and dicing for the pasta, chopping and cutting for the cold meats selection and we were good to go.

Mince pies were at hand for the gluttonous, (thanks P), the wine flowed as at Canna for those in need of lubrication and there was music for all tastes - well almost all.

I must admit, I ensured that candles were lit and sparkling - even in the powder room - the Christmas tree was glistening with fairy lights to get us in the mood of Yuletide, the early birds coiffed a limited supply of champagne and the room had been doused with enough tuberose scent to have half the bees of Kenya swarming. 

But you see, that's not enough.  That doesn't make a party, or at least a good party.  And the jovial, witty, erudite host can only take part of the credit - a small part, I might add.

It's the guests that make a good party - of course.

The dutifully faithful turned up on schedule my good friends R & V laden down with water, fruit juices and just under 100 samosas - why just under I enquired and the honest reply was returned that some had been eaten on the way - well who can blame them - they were handmade and delicious.  Thank you Carla...

Slowly but surely,  the apartment filled and then swelled with the invited; and then burgeoned with the not-so-invited until there were about 60 or 70 in the place, over-spilling quite necessarily to a rather fortunately large balcony, and the eclectic mix of guest assured a lively if not raucous exchange of conversation and chatter.

Groups formed, discussions were energetic and lively, and the mood was palpably electric - and the vodka helped  ;-)

The night went on, the neighbours complained, the early birds left and the die-hards partied hard.  We danced, we laughed, we imbibed.

And that's what makes a good party: the people; those silly persistent guests who enjoy, inhale, hoover up everything life has to offer.  I'm blessed to know so many of this type of human being - and that they want to come to my parties.  It's the guests - it's the people who make a good party.

The mobile department store - Lagos style

27C was the seat allocated to me on the Kenya Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi and after I politely asked an usurper to vacate my place, I sat down for the 5 hour trip back home to Kenya.

Kenya is celebrating its 50th birthday this week and while I could rant on about that for a good blog entry or two, that's to be left for another time.

This particular story is about the "mobile department store" as a colleague referred to it.  

Lagos is as you might expect from its reputation or know from reading about it in other blog entries of mine, a chaotic, rumble-tumble, fight-for-your-life, snatch it or lose it, shout as loud as you can kind of place.  Some of you may remember my tales of Kenya road disobedience and the cursory decorative nature of traffic lights in Nairobi.  Well, the Naija folk do abide by most traffic rules - certainly their police are a tad more concerned with enforcing the Highway Code for the greater good.  So, red lights are mostly observed and junctions treated with a modicum of respect.

And as the minibuses, cars, trucks, motorcycles all come to a grinding halt at the red-amber-green, a sea of hawkers descend on the drivers and passengers to sell their wares. The cornucopia that the eyes behold is boggling and incredible.  One might not be too surprised by steering wheel covers, car air fresheners, and even phone accessories, yet this is the mere first floor of the great Nigerian equivalent of the Grace Brothers' bazar.  

Fruit balanced on ladies' heads, SIM cards by the hundred dangling like heliconia flowers, ice cold drinks promising a welcome respite from the dusty Lagos sun, peanuts neatly packed into triangular plastic bags bursting with cellophane goodness, chewing gum and CDs displayed on a metre square board ready to be popped into your player in the car: even these are bland plainsong in the cacophony that is  Captain Peacock's sanctuary in Lagos.

Then you notice the less obvious department store items - the lift has moved through floors 3 and 4 and continues upward.

Self-help books are offered here; fluorescent framed pictures of Jesus glinting in the headlights - it's getting dark by now; tea-towels, socks, handkerchiefs, and other cotton items; and the obligatory fire extinguisher.  Did I just obligatory?  Hmmmmm, well.....

You think you've seen it all and then the merriment of the festive season assaults the senses:  Christmas trees, complete with twinkling lights, Santa hats in "traditional" pointed style and also the rather avant-garde Stetson-with-white-fur-trimmed version.

With all this profiteering and darting around on the part of the vendors, I must confess, sometimes my appreciation for the male form trumps the produce on offer and the lithe gleaming physiques on the left and right are a delight to behold.  But caveat emptor: make eye contact and the potential sale becomes a distinct reality.  The car continues ahead, and the seller, sensing a willing buyer, jogs, skips, runs to keep up with the car in the hope I'll relieve him of some of his stock.  I quickly look the other way and pretend to be busy iPhone-ing.   Usually, they give up after about a 100m dash - and lurch towards the next upcoming car.  Phew...that was close!

I don't consider myself a John Inman wanna-be and certainly any references to Molly Sugden's errant pussy are in your own mind, reader, but this tale has its parallels.  I have withheld and restrained from such gratuitous references - well at least up until now.

But as I am bombarded via my iPad with Yuletide yodeling from Cliff Richard, Bing Crosby, the Jackson Five and many others aboard my Boeing 737-rather-old-200, I wish I'd bought one of those Christmas Stetsons, to at very least prove I managed to get to the 7th floor of Naija-Are-You-Being-Served - the topmost floor where the milliner entrepreneur spirit reigns supreme.

Long live the mobile department store and may its employees reap even greater success in 2014.!!

Blast from the past

I recently received an invitation from a long lost colleague with whom I worked when I was at Cable & Wireless - when the company was a great monolithic carpet of telecoms coverage.  Alas, now it's been hoovered up by Vodafone and is no more.

I have kept in touch with many from those halcyon days of internet bubbles and crazy start ups - most of which ended up in the dustbin of risk capital.   But I did lose a few on the way.

It was about 2-3 months ago, I had a thought about one particular colleague, J Hendricks - yeah almost like the famous guitarist, but different - actually very different.....  Then I failed to do anything about it.  And it was just this week that J actually got in touch with me via LinkedIn.  The myriad of options we have to connect, reconnect and stay in touch these days are invaluable.

We connected and started to reminisce a little over email.

Before I knew it he sent over a picture from one of our business trips to Milan way back in circa 1998/9.  I posted it on Facebook and invoked a tsunami of likes.  I was a mere 28 or so and the youthful glow was evident - and not just in my rather bold orange plaid T-shirt that I was proudly sporting.

What a beautiful surprise.  I don't even recall the photo being taken - and I certainly didn't have a copy of it.  So it was pleasant indeed to receive it.

And so I got to thinking, there must be so many non-digitised pics out there and we don't go to thte trouble of scanning them and preserving them for eternity on FB, Google, Smartmug, Flickr or Tumblr.  We ought.  Yes, we ought! 

I do have another very good friend (from school days) C Stevenson, as she was then, who delights, and occasionally horrifies, us ex-Netherhall-ites with photographic memories of sixth form gatherings or on-stage (no exiting left) shenanigans as we rendered Fiddler on the Roof immortally destroyed with our shambolic efforts at acting and singing.

But most of us, I suspect, have an attic full of Kodak paper-ed images just waiting to be uploaded and subsequently downloaded. 

So my call to you - is do it....get scanning and zip, PDF, archive, upload and share all those wonderfully embarrassing pictures - and in some cases like the pic of me (which is clearly not a selfie) they may be rather flattering also.

Thank you Mr Hendricks.!