An Austenian Wimmin’s Evening

We took my 96 year- old father back to Wales last week. I love him dearly but he was a strain.

 An ex-classics teacher, he still asks constantly about the origin of words.”What’s the origin of Stratford Saye?” Quite frankly, dear father, I don’t give a damn.His false teeth are bones of contention – we want them in, he prefers them out. He’s also quite demanding in his culinary requirements.

Day 1. The porridge was “not sweet enough”.
Day 2. The porridge was “too sweet’.
Day 3. The porridge was ‘just right’.

I mean, who does he think he is, frigging' Goldilocks?

Anyway, the next night, I told my younger son ‘the girls are coming round, so early dinner and make yourself scarce. ‘You mean the middle-aged women?’ the teenager replied.

So, feeling slightly euphoric, I sent them this e-mail-
Ladies,
Having just enjoyed the company of my dear father for the last week I feel sorely in need of an uplifting evening where manners, good breeding and polite, civilised conversation are the foremost requirements.
I therefore propose that our next soiree, chez moi, be along the lines of one of Jane Austen’s novels and we conduct ourselves in the manner of her characters, say, in Pride and Prejudice.
Sense and sensibility will come to the fore. C., having attended Cheltenham Ladies College, has a natural advantage here. I, on the other hand, due to an unfortunate natural disposition and a certain deficiency of upbringing (see above) may lapse into a character somewhat akin to Mrs Bennett mère.

Lawks!!

In the interests of multiculturalism I suggest we might adopt the mores of 18th/19th century Poland and Austria. If that involves the imbibing of vodka and waltzing around the room, a la Strauss, then so be it. Being ignorant of these customs I await further enlightenment from the appropriate quarters.
I’m sure ladies will attend in suitable attire, though please note that white bonnets and gloves are not obligatory.
I remain, yours ever,

M.

English C .replied-
Dearest M.,

An evening of gentle conversation amongst good female company would be most agreeable, and very welcome by Friday next.
I will by then have had the company of  maiden aunt Miss. C.for a good seven days, due to an unexpected re-occurrence of her occasional melancholic state, the new village doctor having prescribed a fortnight's rest from her arduous labours. My spirits are likely to be sorely tested by then, possibly necessitating the taking of a stronger tonic than is usually consumed at our genteel gatherings.
The anticipation of an evening’s respite from my low- spirited companion will help me to maintain an externally cheerful countenance over the long days ahead.
In deepest gratitude,
yours affectionately

C,

PS I must dis-abuse you of the nature of my early schooling. I was never a pupil of that august educational establishment of Miss Beale and Miss Best. However, I will admit, in my youthful exuberance, to have left many of their young ladies with bruises on their shin-bones following
the regular set-tos on their playing fields, the weapon of choice having been Hockey sticks.

Polish P.replied –‘What are you on about?’

Austrian R. replied – ‘What fun! Please can I be the one who elopes with some thoroughly unsuitable character? If you have the role of the friend who marries the vicar in mind for me I shall refuse.’
            
So I dug out my granny’s lace and silk blouse, her white shawl, black jet beads and lacy gloves and found a floral summer frock which seemed to fit the bill. Chilled the wine, tidied up, put out the crisps and waited. C. arrived dressed in a white bonnet, a frilly pinny over her jeans, bootees and a suitably simpering expression. After the customary mwah mwahs we maintained the Austenian language for a short while and then, as the wine flowed, abandoned the pretence.

P: ‘O, your daughter looks just like your husband A.’
O: ‘Nonsense, she looks just like me’!
P: ‘Are you sure A’s the father?’
O. took it on the chin while the rest of us we were still pondering the non-sequitur of this remark. 
P.,who has a veritable menagerie of animals- three cats, six chickens, two dogs and innumerable fish complained that her chickens were flying up and eating her crop of grapes. To which C. replied ‘Well that would be coq au vin then?’R. had been given some Ann Summers vouchers as a present by her niece but was not keen to cash them in. She didn’t need frilly underwear and was quite content with her current big knickers. After all – she wasn’t looking to score with a new man. ‘No score drawers then!’ yelped C. and we corpsed with laughter. Well, as you can imagine, things went downhill from there.

A riotous assembly whose heady mix of mercurial Welsh melancholy and Eastern European angst should have been tempered by middle English county set reserve, but somehow wasn’t.
Cackling away and giving vent to our toils and troubles- all we needed was a cauldron. Dead certs for a Macbeth audition.

Past the chimes of midnight my companions lurched out into the cold night air. 

As I surveyed the mess of empty bottles and discarded bags of crisps the ghost of Jane Austen whispered in my ear-
‘Lady Catherine de Bourgh would have been" most seriously displeased"’