London, GB | Formerly of New York, Buenos Aires, Fife, and the Western Cape. | Saoránach d’Éirinn.

The Last Post of 2005

A Drink at the Gills’

The other day the Gills invited me over to dinner as the patriarch of the family, one of the most amusing men in lower Westchester (if not all of Westchester) was preparing his speciality of Shepherd’s Pie. The timing was unfortunate, however, since it was the nativital feast of my own pater familias and thus attendance was required at our own dynastic mastication of the evening meal. Nonetheless I agreed to head over Gill-ward a bit before dinner and enjoy a little drink. Caroline and Michelle, true to form, were late for dinner and thus I actually didn’t manage to see either of them before heading to Pop’s birthday feast but I did rather enjoy a nice civilised glass of red with Mater et Pater Gill and a family friend of their’s from Larchmont.

Lord and Lady Gill recently had the pleasure of hearing their younger daughter Lizzy sing in Carnegie Hall, though with the marked reservation that they considered it an ‘alternative’ concert, by which they mean to say it broke their usual statutory “Fifty-Year Rule” whereby they do not attend choral events unless the composer has been dead for at least half a century. To break this sacred doctrine, say the Gills, is to run the strong risk of becoming the latest victim of atonality and disharmony. (As an aside, any fans of atonality, ye poor wretched souls, would be interested to know that the Met is doing Berg’s Wozzeck this season). Nonetheless, Mr. and Mrs. Gill donned their noblesse oblige and attended. Besides, the two pieces Lizzy’s group were singing were Byrd and Tallis, if my memory serves me, so the offending parties were other participants in the concert, praise be.

Anyhow, the family friend from Larchmont asked me how I came to be friends with Caroline which provided me the splendid opportunity of telling the story of the first meeting of yours truly and dear old Caro.

A Young Lady Stuck in a Tree, or: That Wicked Day When We First Chanced to Meet Caroline

Well it was a fall day, perhaps winter, but at any rate it was during the school year. My alma mater was always in the habit of spoiling me by giving me a double-period for lunch which afforded me the time to travel back home for midday victuals, or to world-famous Walter’s in Mamaroneck, or to occasionally luncheon with comrades attending other establishments of secondary education. Well, as the occasion would have it I one day arranged to lunch with young Miss Emma Haberl, une lycéen of Bronxville High School. Emma asked if she might bring along her friend Caroline, and at the time a firm believer in the more the merrier I happily acquiesced to her proposal. The meeting place was agreed as the hour of one in the front courtyard of Bronxville High School.

Well, I duly arrived at the appointed time and place to discover a courtyard bare of any personages bar our Emma. “I thought you said your friend Caroline was coming?” I inquired. Emma was braced to reply when a shrill abrasive voice emanating from a nearby tree shouted “I’M STUCK IN THE TREE! I CAN’T GET DOWN” And, she told no lie, she was stuck in the tree, though I’m happy to report not for very long. We soon had her out and highed off to luncheon during which I managed to offend Caroline in all sorts of charming and hilarious ways.

Last Night’s Soirée Chez Brenner

The Brenners, a most intelligent and amusing family whose presence I always enjoy, threw a little holiday light-dinner-and-drinks sort of thing last night at their place over in Larchmont. Eldest son Adam and I are friends because we had a good friend in common back in our school days (none other than the famous Lucas de Soto). Adam, you see, was not blessed enough to be a Thorntonian; he had to suffer through all those years at Riverdale instead. Anyhow, Brenner decided to sample the university life over at St Andrews by doing a junior semester abroad during Candlemas Term of ’04. Twas the dinner for Adam’s twenty-first at the Caledonian in Edinburgh after which Whit ‘Lawrenceville Spirit Personified’ Miller and I missed the last train back to our little corner of Fife and had to wait ages in Waverley Station for a taxi from St Andrews to arrive. A gaggle of neds (or chavs or what-have-you) crawled out of their hovel and investigated the curiously well-dressed pair of Americans conversing by the taxi rank. Eventually we fended them off.

But digression has got the better of me. As I was saying, the Brenners threw a nice event last night, the Eve of New Year’s Eve, and there was some good conversation. Brenner’s roommate during his term at St Andrews, now a Presby seminarian at Princeton Theological, was also in attendance and it was good to catch up and see what’s what and all that. Another friend of the Brenners’, a lady sophomore in college, explained her hopes to spend a year in Argentina and so the few of us who have been took the liberty of pontificating about what to do and where to go and generally showing off our savoir-faire, etc., etc.

I took great pleasure in commiserating with elders around the buffet about how much we hate New Year’s and what a bother it is and how preferable it is just to stay at home. Personally, I think New Year’s is a bit of a farce. Any evening is one year past the same evening the year before, so why the need to make a big to-do of it? I’ve no idea. I’ve never been a fan of New Year’s Eve myself. Such a silly evening.

After the Party… to Fogarty’s

After the party had run its course I went down to Fogarty’s in town to have a pint with a few friends, though I soon abandoned them for Mr. and Mrs. Carroll (Michelle’s parents) who were infinitely better chat than the haggardly sextet with which I was supposed to be conversing. I had the privilege of hearing why the Carrolls decided to move to America (they originally hail from the Emerald Isle) and other fascinating and amusing tales. When the topic of my future, inevitable at this juncture of life, surfaced Mr. Carroll declared his belief that I’ve got the makings of a gentleman farmer in me. The older I get the more I grow fond of the idea of a rustic existence. Sure, once I’ve got a family to myself I’d much prefer to worry about my children falling into brooks and streams in the country rather than getting run over by some soccer mom in her Land Rover in suburbia. Anyhow, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll deserve prizes for the consistently high standard of banter they uphold. After all, high standards are hard to come by these days.

The Anti-Social Guide to New Year’s Eve

I have been rudimentarily clever in avoiding attendance at any social occasion this New Year’s Eve. By implying to the party on the West Side that I will be attending the soirée on E. 89th and implying to the party on E. 89th that I have already committed myself to attending the party on the West Side, all the while forgetting about the event on 14th Street I am comfortably lounging on the sofa at home in the Garden Room watching an episode of Rumpole of the Bailey which I’ve taken out from one of the neighboring villages’ public libraries. With the firm knowledge that my immediate social circle find this little corner of the web far too dull to for their browsing, adding to the fact that all will be pleasantly sloshed this merry eve, I am sure that none will come to knowledge of my little scheme.

Finale

All that remains then is to wish you all, dear readers, a most happy, holy, and enjoyable New Year and may the Lord continue to smile upon yourselves, your families, and all your loved ones!

Published at 9:02 pm on Saturday 31 December 2005. Categories: Journal People.
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