It’s a Kind of Magic..kinda
You may be wondering how the magic show went.
To recap, I was coerced into throwing a party for Junior Misssy’s 5th birthday and she asked her Dad if he would do a magic show for her 19 (I know, 19!!!!) little friends. And, unlike most Dads who would have reflected on their lack of conjuring ability for a nanosecond and then politely decline, Meeester just said, “Ok then, I’ll do a magic show”.
Such bravado despite having no ability in the discipline.
As the weeks went on, signs that Meeester was in-training would appear. It wasn’t that there were any spangly jumpsuits arriving by mail order, or a pen filled with two Siberian Tigers in the back garden. It was the little things.
For example, I noticed a Word file on the desktop marked “The Secrets of David Blane”. Was the magic show going to consist of Meeester suspended in a perspex box above the street for ten days without any food? Would a gang of cheeky students be hiring as helicopter to fly a solitary burger past the box to taunt him?*
As it turned out, Meeester had a show all worked out. With actual tricks and an actual “Magic Hat”TM
Here he is:
But the show did not go 100% smoothly. Oh, he had his hecklers alright. One minute in, he was dealt the cruelest blow a magician could ever face. A 4 year old boy in the back, with a lazy eyepatch, shouted the devastating words of,
“You’re Not Magic!”
The adults visibly winced. “Ooooofff!” went the collective shock-wave. How could Meeester recover from this? Paul Daniels would have flounced off to his dressing room for less!
He quickly reverted to the surefire way of heckle control: humiliation of the heckler.
He asked the boy to come forward. Goddamn it, he would prove that, yes indeed, he WAS magic! Much as Jesus would have done if someone had complained about the quality of the fish and the freshness of the bread roll at that big picnic he had.
Lazy-Eye Cherry was called forward, but some kids didn’t hear Meeester right and thought they were all being called forward! Bum rush the show, the pitch is being invaded! Meeester’s little magic table was in danger of being tipped over. Surely Copperfield never had to work in these conditions?!
This was a tricky moment for the illusionist, indeed. A panic stricken Meeester called behind him for adult bouncers to appear and save the show from the kind of crowd crushing scenes that made Bono uncomfortable at Live Aid.
In seconds, the kids were settled by the mini legion of friends of ours who, luckily, are teachers and used controlling to scenes of kid-induced flashpoint mayhem. The show could continue and Lazy-Eye was converted into believer by the use of some water, three cups and a tense but fleeting moment where he thought he’d get his little eye-patch soaked.
A week on, Meeester went to pick Junior Misssy up from nursery. He was mobbed by fans.
Hang on, must stop, am receiving a call from Caesar’s Palace…”Hello, The Great Martini’s office, how can I help you? No, we won’t support Michael Jackson…but we are up for the Barry Manilow gig…”
* This actually happened to David Blane when he did his Tower of London thing. Apparently he also got quite a lot of sausages thrown at the box, and routinely people would have picnics under him.
You picked the wrong country if you wanted moral support, Dave.
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The Great Meeestero
The invitations are out and I am now committed to hosting Junior Misssy’s Birthday Party despite many reservations.
The whole thing is set to go awry before it has even started and I would warn you to expect a blog post afterwards.
Junior Misssy has asked Meeester to do “a magic show”.
He told me this last week. It has taken me this long to come to terms with it.
“I’m doing a magic show”
“Eh?”
“Junior Misssy asked me to do a magic show for her party”
“But you don’t know any magic”
“They’re five year old kids, they’ll never know”
“You’ll need to learn some magic, Meeester; they’ll know”
“OK, I’ll learn some. How hard can it be?”
I feel like taping the show and posting it up. Some of the Mums are tempted to hang around to see the results. Vultures!
Meeester has asked (in actual seriousness) for me to download 80’s funk-lite classic, “Just an Illusion” by Imagination, for his intro.
He better hope his pre-school audience don’t know about the slow hand clap.
(I’m praying Meeester doesn’t copy their outfits….)
Fairly Bobbins
Sometimes I do not fit into the established mould of a Mum. There are things I do and things I do not do. My kids do seem to like me though, so I figure I’m doing OK so far.
However, I am being called to conform slightly. It is Junior Misssy’s 5th birthday in three weeks and she is angling for a party. And when I say angling, what I really mean is she’s spearheading a saturation PR campaign worthy of Hilary, Obama and McCain put together.
I swear she’s got spin doctors in her pay.
This last night:
“Mummy, have you noticed, you’ve not had to give me a row all day?”
I swear she’s got a campaign tune as well. She loves the Flight of the Conchords* and has been parodying the delightful “Cheer up Murray” at any given opportunity for our entertainment, replacing Murray’s name with family members names as appropriate.
I love that little beast, it goes without saying, but I hate kids parties. I hate being invited to them, I hate having to RSVP to invites for them, I hate having to buy trash presents in order to go to them. I hate they way Junior Misssy seems to be invited to one every bloody weekend.
But most of all I hate being coerced into holding one.
Reasons? Oh you want REASONS? I’ll give you REASONS!
1. Other people’s kids bug me. OK I like my friends’ kids and my nieces but other than that, they’re a bunch of unreasonable minibeasts.
2. I will have to tidy my house to showroom standards to pass the examining eyes of other mums who will cruelly judge me, if I appear slattern in any way.
3. My tidiest-it’s-ever-been-house will need rebuilt 30 minutes into the party.
4. Everyone will bring presents that will fill Junior Missy’s little bedroom to bursting. She’ll get far too much and when I try and siphon some off to charity shops or recycle them etc, she’ll notice. (This disdain excludes Boden and White Company offerings…please note).
5. Someone will buy her something horrifically messy, noisy, or requiring parental participation.
6. I have no small talk capabilities for the sea of mums that will appear at my door. I’ll have to pretend to be normal somehow. Some suggestions for key phrases I could use are greatly appreciated. There’s even the possibility that some of the clingier, fretful mums will stay for the duration. Aaargh! **
7. It’s not form to have alcohol at a kid’s party.
8. I will have to think of some party games to keep them from trashing the house, but on the day you can bet I’ll have forgotten to buy prizes and will have to run to the corner shop to buy a gazillion crème eggs during pass the parcel. I just have to hope nobody notices and keeps passing til I get back.
9. At least one kid will cry and it’s not really on to shove them out in the garden until they’ve stopped.
10. I’ll have to do really uncharacteristically organised things like, making invitations, sending invitations, sending thank you notes and remembering I’ve organised a party and not go out that day by mistake.
11. Junior Missy will have such a great time, she’ll want another one next year.
* Yes yes, she’s only five and I know there are some choice lyrics in there. Can I help it if my kids prefer “Flight of the Conchords”, My Name is Earl” and the “Mighty Boosh” to “In the Night Garden” and “Lazytown”?
** Maybe mums that have read this blog and are concerned about their child’s wellbeing
The Christmas Party Survival Guide
My new work’s Christmas Party is on Friday. It is an overnight stay at a country estate. We arrive at 10.30 in the morning and depart the next day.
Sweet Child o’ Mine….I am terrified.
Shaking in my sho-boots as I am, I am not going to anticipate anything about it. Instead I am going to give you Misssy’s rules for work Christmas party survival.
1. Beware of the free bar.
This is a poison chalice of the highest order.
I once saw my old company handyman passed out drunk on a couch in the reception area. As the night went on, people essentially vandalised the poor guy. By the time he came round he had a cock drawn on his cheek leading to his mouth, his shirt was off and he was sporting marker pen boobs. In addition, someone had managed to pull a silver sequined G-string over his trousers. Photos were, of course, taken.
Keep that picture in your mind as you consider your response to “Flaming Sambucas all round, anyone?!!!”
Please don’t let this be you
2. Do not get stuck next to management in the seating arrangements
Sometimes this is hard. My managing director for six years running would make sure that in the table layout my name tag was next to his. One year I snuck in and swapped it, but he insisted it was swapped back. He was a perv, though and maybe not all bosses are like that.
Perv or no, and assuming you have a choice, there is one good reason you should avoid them; they are not your friends. No amount of alcohol is enough to switch off the power balance switch that exists between the two of you. Don’t delude yourself it’s even worth trying. Also, they only want to talk about work. And you want to be over with your mates talking utter crap (and working out what to do to the passed-out janny this year), don’t you?
3. Do not go onto a club afterwards.
Given that most Christmas parties start at lunchtime, you really need to be home and out of harm’s way by late evening. Anything more is guaranteed messiness. And even if you are not the one being messy, then you will witness sights you cannot erase from your brain.
Worst of all will be being forced to dance with middle aged guys with Santa ties on, who haven’t been near any club recently that doesn’t have the word “golf “in front of it.
4.Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, cop off with anyone you work with.
I cannot stress this enough.
Other than the obvious “don’t-get-your-meat-where-you-get-your-bread” reason, there are three particular extra reasons.
Firstly, EVERYONE will know about it instantly. I was once called over by a work mate to witness a happening of this sort through the board room window. Before table-top coitus was even interuptusused, the whole company knew.
To be honest the couple were bloody lucky that drink perhaps makes things a little quicker, shall we say, as one of the cameramen I worked with was running to get the camera from upstairs. Lucky for them, he was too late to catch the exclusive.
Secondly, even if the affection was genuine at the time, you’ve got at least a week of no-work between the “happening” and going back to work guaranteeing extreme awkwardness that first day back. And you can bet the whole work is beaking-in to watch that situation go down.
Thirdly, you don’t want to ruin your Christmas with horrid flashbacks and ruminations of whether you should hand in your notice along with the drunken janitor.
Your Chrimbo cop off won’t look like this….( I Googled some terrible things to find a pic of what it would look like,
but I’ll spare you)
5. The Special Fifth Survival Rule
This can always be used but you need to be organised. It is this; have an excuse ready in September as to why you can’t make the Christmas Party at all and avoid it altogether.
Make sure to save appointments up for just this occasion. For example, you could book the operation to get your varicose veins done that very week. It’ll be more enjoyable certainly, than being felt up by Barry from computing on the dancefloor.
Other than that, my dears, have a good one and let’s all make it through unscathed.
