A night in Surbiton

Well we did it. We spent Burns night with a bunch of strangers. And let me tell you now, it was delightful.

Naturally, we were late. We had carefully planned that we would need to leave at 5.30pm to get there on time, so we organised for our friends to take the children around 5pm, which would give us plenty of opportunity to get ourselves dolled up, drive down and check into a Travelodge before wandering over to the party.

As a parent, I should have remembered that careful planning is no longer a valuable asset in our lives. By lunch time, Joachin had already discovered an invitation to a swimming party in his bag. It was for 6.30pm. The idea that maybe, just this once, he could miss out on a party saw a wobbly bottom lip, which meant a few minutes of phone calls and sorting out who would take him, who would pick him up, and carefully placing a pound for the lockers in his coat pocket so he wouldn't forget.

Then I checked my email and discovered that a member of the U12 tennis team had dropped out at the last minute and could Joachin possibly take their place. The match was at 4pm. Another wobbly bottom lip. I rang the coach and confirmed that the match would be an hour and a half at the most. Tight, but we could do it.

So we rang round again, and reorganised who was going to be where and doing what, and at quarter to four I got Joachin into his coat, armed him with a tennis racquet and drove him to our local tennis club.

At 5.30pm I was home, changed, ready to go and just waiting on Joachin to be brought back by his grandmother.

By 5.45pm, we were getting worried. I rang said grandmother. Apparently, all of the matches were finished but one. You can guess which one. He wasn't winning, but Joachin was putting up a fight. He was really making his opponent work for his victory. Half of me thought, good for you, don't go down without a fight. The other half was looking at his watch and thinking defeat at 5.30pm would be very similar to defeat at 6pm but with slightly less time pressure.

At 6pm, the triumphant loser returned. We all congratulated him on a match well fought, said our goodbyes and prepared to get in the car. Then Sue casually asked Joachin where his coat was.

Let's just say, I managed the drive to the tennis club and back in less time then it would have taken me to adequately describe my feelings on the matter. We set off an hour and a half late and began the long drive to Surrey in darkness.

When we arrived in Surbiton, we were rather surprised to discover that our hotel appeared to be a car park. The car park for Marks and Spencers as it happens, so it seems even the squalor is terribly middle class in Surrey. Still, we dutifully drove to the second level, as instructed, and discovered the Travelodge entrance disguised as a maintenance hatch behind the bins.

Having checked in with an overly cheerful receptionist, we dumped our bags and headed to the party.

A little bit of background is required here. We met Gillian and Adrian when my brother in law had decided to take the children to see a Michael Morpurgo play produced by the local theatre company, and we took the opportunity of being child free to go to a rather nice restaurant. We arrived at the South Lodge hotel, where the restaurant is located, to be told that it wasn't quite ready, and were invited to have a drink in the bar while we waited. I had assumed it was our table that wasn't ready, not the restaurant. It turned out I was wrong. When we were shown through, I realised that the entire restaurant consists of about eleven tables, all in a line, all right next to the kitchen which is masterminded by the brilliant Matt Gillan. This arrangement means that you are very close to the tables on either side. So close, in fact, that when our neighbours arrived it seemed natural to strike up a conversation with them. Wine flowed, we drank and dined, and this is how we came to be strolling down Serbiton High Street, searching for a party amongst the day care centres, pension advisors and chiropracters.

We found the house without trouble. The first thing we noticed when we walked in was the opera singer. He was singing in a voice tuned for the Albert Hall, and one which therefore had little trouble projecting to every crevice of the living room. We handed over coats to be hung up, and made our way to said living room where everyone was standing in thrall to the talented tenor. He was singing to a haggis.

We had been nervous about how we would integrate into this company. The likelihood was that everyone would know each other and that we would struggle to break into the conversation with our limited smalltalk, and fall back question of what everybody did for a living.

The reality was that, with the exception of Luke, our opera singer, I spent the evening without feeling the need to find out anything about what anyone did, and could instead concentrate on the more joyful task of finding out who they were.

I've always regarded the 'what do you do' question as a useful entry point, a fine way to steer the conversation towards some point of commonality without having to launch in with 'what's your favourite chip', but ultimately a very soulless question, reducing everyone as it does to a Happy Families card with no personality beyond PC Plod, the policeman, or Mr Chip, the cookie baker.

This was not that kind of party. Within seconds, I felt as though we had known everyone for ever. It helped that, as part of the Burns Night festivities, we were split into teams, so we could participate in improvised Highland Games. If trying to throw a Mars Bar into a sieve using only your mouth doesn't break the ice then nothing will. We took part in tossing the caper (using a spoon to throw a small green pizza ingredient into the mouth of Nicola Sturgeon), and the ham-mer throw (a piece of ham, on a cocktail stick, thrown into the mouth of Gordon Brown). By the end of the night, we were replete with whisky, haggis, and Tunnock's chocolate tea cakes.

In the last post I promised you to report on what happens when you throw away your inhibitions and allow yourself to say yes to an opportunity. I can gleefully report that what happens is that you make new friends, gather new experiences, and end up having the time of your life. Now I feel an obligation to throw our own party, so we can return the favour and invite all our new friends to visit us, although I feel my opera singing may not be quite at the same quality level.

The only thing that remains is to find an occasion of equal national significance to Burns Night. What day is St George's on again?