Postcard from Norfolk – Hoste party
The Hoste pre-pre-pre-pre (sounds like the call of a sand warbler) Christmas party is, essentially, a glamorous way to bridge the gap between sitting outside getting hammered on wine and sitting by a cosy fire inside getting hammered on gin. Last year the party was to raise money for Burnham Market's Christmas lights, and nothing sends people to the bar as regularly as drinking in a good cause. This year there was no good cause, but there was drinking and there was a theme.
And the theme was: old and new. The middle class, middle aged folk had arrived in good time to sensibly secure seats as far as possible from the excellent live music so that they could converse and drink freely. The younger crowd, who appeared to be local girls in spray-on dresses, stood around in groups listening attentively to the live singer, drinking blue cider and waiting until the DJ started before heading to the dance floor to bop enthusiastically to the sort of music they play on Radio 2, but played LOUD! I love a disco in a village, nothing appears quite so loud, not a metal festival, not an accident in a bell foundry, not the sort of seismic event that causes birds on the neighbouring continent to take flight. The music was pleasingly thumping and set off feedback howl in the hearing aids of the older folk.
This was also the first night to get some patio heater practice in. Patio heater proximity placement is something of an art, and one I have not mastered. Essentially one has to stand so near them to get any benefit that simply by turning your head towards them you can light your fag, while the side facing away is simultaneously chilled by being on the dark side of the patio heater.
Folk had dressed up for the evening, and I saw my first pair of cashmere shorts on a live person. Hitherto, I had only seen them displayed on mannequins in shop windows. Leggy mannequins, long mannequins. The lady who had chosen to wear them was not, I fear, what the designer had in mind; a tall teen with one of those sets of legs that don't touch until they connect at the pelvis. Shall we just say 'brave' and leave it at that.
Also wearing shorts, small silver ones, were the male staff of the Hoste, who joined in the fun on the dance floor and shook their thang with the guests. It was very much last days of Rome meets disco.
All in all a corking night. Disco, drinking, shorts and, also, shots. Last year the jelly vodka shots were a pound a shot and handed round by girls in Vegas showgirl costumes. This year there was no money raising so instead they were arranged in a pyramid shape, dozens and dozens of vodka jelly shots available for free, and because they were free, nobody was touching them - or maybe it was because they were not being handed round by Vegas showgirls. Once you've been handed your vodka jelly shot by a Vegas showgirl, it's very difficult to go back to having to serve yourself. Difficult but, I can assure you, not impossible - and it gets easier with practice.
And the theme was: old and new. The middle class, middle aged folk had arrived in good time to sensibly secure seats as far as possible from the excellent live music so that they could converse and drink freely. The younger crowd, who appeared to be local girls in spray-on dresses, stood around in groups listening attentively to the live singer, drinking blue cider and waiting until the DJ started before heading to the dance floor to bop enthusiastically to the sort of music they play on Radio 2, but played LOUD! I love a disco in a village, nothing appears quite so loud, not a metal festival, not an accident in a bell foundry, not the sort of seismic event that causes birds on the neighbouring continent to take flight. The music was pleasingly thumping and set off feedback howl in the hearing aids of the older folk.
This was also the first night to get some patio heater practice in. Patio heater proximity placement is something of an art, and one I have not mastered. Essentially one has to stand so near them to get any benefit that simply by turning your head towards them you can light your fag, while the side facing away is simultaneously chilled by being on the dark side of the patio heater.
Folk had dressed up for the evening, and I saw my first pair of cashmere shorts on a live person. Hitherto, I had only seen them displayed on mannequins in shop windows. Leggy mannequins, long mannequins. The lady who had chosen to wear them was not, I fear, what the designer had in mind; a tall teen with one of those sets of legs that don't touch until they connect at the pelvis. Shall we just say 'brave' and leave it at that.
Also wearing shorts, small silver ones, were the male staff of the Hoste, who joined in the fun on the dance floor and shook their thang with the guests. It was very much last days of Rome meets disco.
All in all a corking night. Disco, drinking, shorts and, also, shots. Last year the jelly vodka shots were a pound a shot and handed round by girls in Vegas showgirl costumes. This year there was no money raising so instead they were arranged in a pyramid shape, dozens and dozens of vodka jelly shots available for free, and because they were free, nobody was touching them - or maybe it was because they were not being handed round by Vegas showgirls. Once you've been handed your vodka jelly shot by a Vegas showgirl, it's very difficult to go back to having to serve yourself. Difficult but, I can assure you, not impossible - and it gets easier with practice.
Labels: Holidays, Hoste Arms, Norfolk, Parties
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