The Dinner Party

I go for dinner with a group of friends, to celebrate one of their birthdays.

The conversation was flowing, and I was being hilarious and charming, as normal. The pre-dinner topics included deadly spiders, the Ashes, and how UK snakes are really rubbish (yes, there were some Aussies in our midst).

The wine was flowing and we were enjoying ourselves. As Birthday meals go, it was turning out to be a very good one.

Then the food arrived.

Now, I know what you are thinking. You are assuming that I am about to witter on about some poor quality fare from an overpriced restaurant. If you are, then shame on you, you are wrong. I can also give compliments. Of all the food I have ever had this was definitely the most recent.

See?

Just as the last meal was brought over to the table by the smiley waitress, the birthday girl leaned over to her friend on her right and whispered, just loud enough for everyone in the SL4 postcode to hear, “I think I might have worms.”

There was the briefest moment where I wondered if the birthday girl had decided to send her main course back to the kitchen and instead do as the schoolyard song suggests and head down the garden to eat worms. Then I realised that would be stupid. She is a vegetarian.

“Stomach worms or bum worms?” asked her friend nonchalantly before pushing the first forkful of food towards her mouth.

The words hit me like the host at the Jamiroquai Paparazzi Party. I was left incredulous.

Unfortunately, I must need to work on my incredulous face as they mistook my incredulity for genuine interest in bum worms and they tried to include me in the conversation.

“Are you joking? We are about to eat, and you are really going to have this conversation now? Really?” I pleaded hungrily.

Birthday girl’s friend continues, “My sister had them and had an itchy bum. Do you have an itchy bum?”

I put down my fork and looked forlornly at my dinner. My roast sea bass was looking less attractive by the second. Someone at the other end of the table enquired as to what all the fuss was about, and I tried to explain that they really didn’t want to know, but within seconds I was in the middle of an eight-way conversation about the identification of, and pro’s and con’s of treating, worms. Bum worms.

Later, we all agreed she might not actually have bum worms, as when birthday girl went to the toilet she didn’t drag her arse along the floor, which I now understand is considered a very good sign of bum worms. Or a sign of very good bum worms. I am not sure. I had zoned out a little by this point.

The rest of the evening passed without further bum-sickness related incidents.

And to think that I call these people my friends.