I am hosting book group tonight.
I have entertaining anxiety.
Is it because the house is a pit and still has the faint waft of 'rodent' from our recently discovered and baited little friend behind the fridge? Or is it becuase my husband will not be here to avert either possibility of J bursting in and wanting to give us a few bars of the latest tune by "The Veronicas", or little S cruising the snack table for hours becasue he doesn't want to go to sleep? Or perhaps its because every time anyone comes anywhere near her house my mother goes into anxiety overdrive, cleans the whole house to within an inch of its life and then produces out of thin air platters of delicious nibbles and fashionable wine.
Maybe I just needed a full nights sleep.
Hope the ladies feel good about the $10 bottle of white, a bit of supermarket cheese and bickies, lollies and, the ubiquitous bookgroup treat- the TimTam.
My problem is actually better titled 'catering anxiety'.
(I think this falls into the category of crap you get caught up in that doesn't really matter. I hope the ladies have a nice time but I guess I don't have to add perfect '50's-style hostess to my list of achievements. )
What no kebabs of cabana and cubed cheese inserted, decoratively, into a grapefruit. What no freshly baked savoury scrolls for your nibbling pleasure! No martinis, sherry or indeed, any offensively-titled cocktails on offer either.
And I don't have a clean frock.