Last night attended party for Chi-chi, newly appointed writer-in-residence at famous Fritzonian Institute. Spent large part of day getting ready. Had appointment for comb out, undercoat thinning, nail trimming, ear cleaning, finishing off with spritz bath. Wonderful experience. Clinicians noticed I was nervous so gave me full body massage at no extra cost. Most impressed by professional and caring approach.
Arrived at party and looked around for friends. Found Maya, Cindy and Véronique immediately. No sign of Henri or Oscar. Shortly after, received text from Henri saying he hoped to be there but had spent the day perfecting recipe for roasted lima beans and pine nuts served with muesli sauce. Firmly believes forthcoming book Guineapigging Out should include range of appetising vegan dishes. While he's obviously taking latest project seriously feel this wasn't a good day for getting carried away with cookery.
Venue, New College Library, decorated with paraphernalia connected with writing: copies of Chi-chi's books, old-fashioned typewriters, posters advertising editing services, etc. At one end of room, buffet table crammed with food. Guest list of well-known people: Stephen King, Jeffrey Archer, John Le Carré. Apparently Archbishop of Canterbury and Prime Minister had also received invitations. Disapprove strongly of such pretensions.
As lecturer prepared to welcome guests, experienced rush of cold air entering room and turned round. There was a bedraggled Oscar. Realised more important to give support to struggling friend than listen to lecturer, so slipped away from group. Oscar soaking wet and trembling. Found small room and towel and helped dry him. Eventually he told me his family in Burkina Faso had narrowly escaped capture today by poachers. Their forest is under increasing danger from such people. His younger brother, Pip, had been injured in process. Never seen chimp friend in such a state. Fetched him glass of milk, to which waiter wisely added nip of brandy. Insisted Oscar drink it. Then found quiet spot in cloakroom and suggested he rest.
Returned to party to hear Chi-chi addressing guests.
'Ladies and Gentlemen, cats and dogs, guinea pigs, I am honoured to have been appointed as your writer-in-residence. This is my second such post. Two years ago I was writer-in-residence in Kowloon, Hong Kong, and before that I taught creative writing in Bejing. As any writer will know, there is no one way to write a book. It's possible, therefore, that when I meet with you, my views will be different from the ones you have been taught. This is fine. The choice is up to you. All we - (and he pointedly glanced at lecturers) - can do is give you a range of techniques to develop your writing craft. I promise you that I will pass on as much as I can from my wealth of experience.'
As he finished, there was explosion of applause and stamping of paws. Stole look at principle lecturer who had sour expression on her face. Believe she felt upstaged. Especially as queue of people already forming to talk to Chi-chi.
Went back to check Oscar okay and found him fast asleep, reeking of brandy. Toyed with idea of waking him but decided better to leave him. Obviously exhausted from news of family's recent trauma. Besides wouldn't look good to appear drunk, and shame to spoil hitherto unblemished reputation for being scholarly student with impeccable manners.
Back at party, realised had eaten nothing all day and went to buffet table when Cindy and Maya were whispering to each other. Examined food: rabbit vol-au-vents, snails in filo pastry, slithers of smoked salmon on savoury biscuits, cherry tomatoes stuffed with cream cheese. What I wanted was bowl of Whiskas. Then remembered Henri meant to be providing catering. Sidled up to lecturers who were deep in conversation.
'At least Benni's catering rescued the situation,' one said. 'I did warn you that you were giving too much responsibility to a guinea pig,' the other replied. 'I know. Anyway, Henri has little chance of completing his Masters.'
When they saw me they scowled and began talking about golf.
Returned to buffet table where dog friends still searching for something edible. 'We could go back to my place for a snack' Véronique suggested. At the sound of a commotion, we turned round. To our surprise, a West Indian guest - apparently well-known poet - was setting up a band, with steel pans, cymbals and other instruments. As we started dancing, lecturers looked stunned, had quick, apologetic word with string quartet cowering in corner, and left immediately.
Entranced by music, forgot we were hungry and took to the floor. A lot of flinging ourselves around followed as steel pans became more frenzied. At one point Cindy chucked away container of anxiety pills, then in calmer moment retrieved them, remembering she still had several assignments to get through.
Just when I was wishing Neville was there as he loves dancing, felt something furry by my ankle and there he was. Seventh sense or not, don't know, but while pining by Granny Elena's shrine in kitchen he'd felt calling to come to party. Haven't seen him in such good form since before Granny died. Told me afterwards believed he might recover from her death after all. At 3 am, carried him home, asleep, tucked under a paw. This took two hours as normally walk on four legs, but couldn't abandon him and both night buses and taxis snooty about having mice as passengers. When we got home, Neville opened eyes, smiled sleepily and told me he loved me. Despite belief in keeping feelings in check, found myself blinking back tears. Probably connected with hunger.
Purrs
Bakhtin
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