I had been anticipating the final weekend with mounting unfettered excitement. Gordon Brown whoopee cushions at the ready, this was to be the ultimate test of all authoritative theories on Open House trade. Word on the street was that week four would be throbbin'!
But when Saturday dawned and the rain came down like stair rods I sensed my elation may have been misplaced. To cap it all, after an evening of excess and exuberance observing Heavenly's birthday, several of my troupe had stonking hangovers - the severity of which tended to increase with the longevity of their hosts.
A remedy vehemently advocated by Kenneth and endorsed by Voluptuous (both have a flair for celebration) was to toss down half a pint of lager. And so it was on Saturday morning that Heavenly ('it's like drinking iron filings') and I prepared to greet the world with cheery smiles and boozy breath. Perfect.
With the benefit of hindsight I suppose it was just as well that only the most intrepid visitors had ventured out because, most certainly, the cakes were not at their best. I had left it until just before opening to finish off the strawberry scones and, as I proceeded to lace the entire kitchen with whipped cream (this took three attempts - electric whisks are a menace in the wrong hands) I noted that, mercifully, there was likely to be scant demand for al fresco cream teas.
Added to that, the presence of guests revealed an unforeseen design feature associated with the whoopee cushions. I was already aware that one remote control would detonate a resounding cacophony of trumps from all of the cushions on display - much to the delight of our most youthful patrons. But I had been ignorant that a similar effect would be elicited by receiving
an incoming text on a mobile phone.
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