AS THE clock ticked towards 12 I found myself singing – I use the word loosely – a few lines from Paint Your Wagon: "There's a coach comin' in, You can feel it getting' near, All at once and it bursts into view, tum-te-tum-tumty-tum, tumty-tum-tumty-tum, Like a coach full of dreams come true. And it's bringin' me eyes that are moonlight, And carryin' lips that are wine…"
Without prejudice to those involved concerning eyes that are moonlight and lips that are wine the coach we were expecting was not exactly full of dreams come true. More full of former employees of Scotsman Publications, most of a certain age and one
or two well beyond, including the remarkable Sadie, on their summer outing.
Well, they like to go somewhere different and this year we were it. Take that to its logical conclusion and ask "Why?" and I can only say it seemed a good idea at the time when – let's not forget who said what – Liz suggested our place for lunch between morning coffee and blitzing the high street.
No coercion, we did it of our own free will and looked forward to meeting old friends and colleagues. Back about April, that was, when the possibility was first discussed with Wendy.
She only phoned to ask about possible things to do in town and possible places to eat. Given Liz's generous and impulsive nature – no complaints from me, I am, and hope to remain, main beneficiary – there was an inevitability about the course the conversation took and the next week or two.
Summer lunch for 45? No trouble. By popular demand up to 55? Fine. Why not invite one or two other journalist friends and make it a round 60? Okay.
As one of a family of nine I'm no stranger to mass catering. My mother worked on the principle that if she was cooking for 11 then a few more didn't make much difference so, particularly at weekends, friends and relatives would also pack round the table while at DIY breakfasts the crowd round the Aga resembled a busy hotel kitchen.
More recent catering ventures came to mind. Our own at-home wedding reception – Why? No money at the time, next question – and large-scale Christmas dinners, a house-warming and, on the quality and variety side, several years of providing five-star bed and breakfast.
But 60 for lunch? As we ordered the salmon and local farm ice-cream and strawberries, washed several dozen glasses, scrubbed down our eclectic collection of garden chairs and borrowed more from a neighbour, hoped that some roses would last and that the sweet peas would flower while wishing for good weather, I began to fret a little.
Just a little. Not a full-blown, head-clutching, "What were we thinking about?" fret, more a "Keep busy, that's the idea, peel those potatoes, slice those strawberries, test that salmon, where's the ice, load that barge, tote that bale" mild frenzy.
Then the coach rolled in on time and unloaded as nice, cheerful and willing-to-help crowd as any hosts could hope for. The sun shone, they enjoyed the food – and the wine – the garden and the chat and were reluctant to leave. It was great. Oh yes, once only. But great.
The full article contains 569 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
