Party Animal

Despite just a handful of close friends in attendance, my belated Birthday Party held by joint B´day Gal, Sugarperkin, at her home in Tottenham (North London) was a most pleasant if somewhat drunken evening.

Sugarperkin and I go back quite a long way and got to know each other in London 1986 through a mutual friend. She came out in 1991 and has subsequently developed a wide collection of rather butch feminist friends.

A lot of them are out in force tonight, but they are generally friendly and non-castrating.

After successfully constructing a chocolate model of the Eiffel Tower at the last Mass Meet-up 18 months ago, Nygate shows no fear when requested to reconstruct a chocolate Taj Mahal.


Rodders, a fellow Social Scientist student from my undergraduate days regales us with some fine anecdotes, if sometime suspect in content and “truth”, and with all the diplomacy of Osama Bin Ladan.

Based on an idea placed by his wife, Rodders makes a tentative inquiry as to whether i would like a travel companion at least for part of the African adventure. I keep my response somewhat ambiguous. A real nice guy, but extremely cumbersome and high maintenance.

Jackie and Dave continue to offer love and practical support, Dave and I share Colombian culture stories and plan an assault to check out an obscure gorilla breeding programme in the SE county of Kent.

Sugarperkin and i invite contributions for the Haitian disaster relief fund, and my Indian hat is filled with notes and donations by the end of the evening.

Sugarperkin is a super host if rather drunk by 7pm. She has sorted mixed cheeses, Indian and Chinese snacks, breads and dips. By 2am she wants to go to bed and Rodders and i crash out at Nygate´s Hackney townhouse by 3am. Waking at 8.30am with the mother of all headaches, we all watch Andy Murray throw away the Australian Open final.

Nygate´s rendition or the Eiffel Tower a year and a half year ago

With the return of my parents tomorrow evening, i have spent much of the day with the vacuum cleaner, and dustpan and brush. The Parental Home is like a living museum and Ma is rightly, if somewhat obsessively, house-proud.

The reality that at 43 years old, as from tomorrow i will be living with parents, fills me with complete horror. It hits home sharply with an appointment with SnatchWest Bank where my personal details are printed out on the front cover of my folder. The humiliation is complete.