or The Sorrows of Young Werther
I don’t want to write this post. In fact I have work to do and if I were to post something, I would rather tell you about Outpost theatre, which is so very good. I don’t want to write the post I am actually writing, mainly because of the on- and off-line brouhaha it might cause. But I have to.
My birthday was to be celebrated on the same day as Great Westphalian’s housewarming party. Great Westphalian asked us to drop by later, and I vaguely said I would. The day passed at work and then quietly and sweetly, courtesy of Jod (and her presents). In the evening, the members of the bubble, friends and some house guests would all go to a live music restaurant to celebrate.
It turned out that very few people remembered me for the occasion, especially compared to last year (when I was away in England). With few exceptions, like Jorge (may God make him serene, rich and job-happy — as everything else, he has) and people such as, say, my parents and the like.
We went to the restaurant. The food was very good, the music quite good, the wine list crap (they had no Outpost beer, either). But what really bewildered, enraged and depressed me was my dinner guests’ behaviour. With very few bright exceptions, they chatted the night away among them, paying very little attention to the person whose birthday they were supposedly celebrating. I’ll keep it short here, just mentioning that no fun whatsoever was had, at least on my behalf.
We went home not particularly early, some time after 1:30 am. It turned out that Great Westphalian was expecting me after that in his housewarming party, as he had a little birthday surprise for me (complete with cake and presents). He was not very happy afterwards, and how can I blame him?
The following days have been very difficult for both me and Jod. I could cast a malediction (ineffective), or blame the Outpost for the lot (totally unfair). All I can really do is bark my frustration away in this so very public stage of my internal life.