Last week our Eldest Princesses turned 18 and 21, and to celebrate we threw them a party. The total cost of this shindig has been kept secret from me, but I suspect it’s in the region of Chile’s national debt.
Upon hearing the news that we were holding a joint 18th and 21st, I eagerly rubbed my hands together and announced, “Leave it to me! I know exactly what we need!” Then scuttled off to find my old ‘Party ‘til you Puke!’ t-shirt.
Afterwards, I scribbled out this list: One keg of beer. Two cartons of rum. 10 kg of snags. 5 packs of buns. Yardglass… two yardglasses (in case one gets dropped). Fix lock on toilet door.
After reading my list, Long Suffering Wife sighed and added: Heavily sedate husband. Buy large, potted plant to tie the drooling vegetable against, and hope this stops him from wrecking another party.
Apparently things have changed since my 21st. For starters, we hired a private room instead of using the vast, fibro clad, car port of Bray Manor.
And instead of gathering round a keg and drinking like we were trying to set several world records, bar staff were employed to responsibly dole out the booze. They would also prevent any children ‘accidently’ knocking back a few brews, which I’ve been reliably informed now attracts the sort of fine that would make Clive Palmer choke on his cream bun.
We even had a security guard. “A security guard?!” I yelled, after seeing Rent-a-Thug’s hourly rate, “I could do that!” Cue the sound of laughter.
Honestly, why do we bother? The whole point of these events is to announce to the world that your children are now adults and no longer need Mummy and Daddy looking after them. I suspect this is what 40th birthdays are for nowadays.
Which is a shame, because by then, I won’t be able to party as hardy as I used to; probably because I’ll be too busy looking after the flamin’ Grandkids.