That tired old turkey is still running, it’s our turn to do the turkey fest tonight. The friends who are hosting the dinner have called three times to remind us it’s eight for eight thirty and I can’t help but wonder why? I know that type of meal is a bit tricky to get everything ready at the same time, but we all allow a bit of leeway…don’t we? I hope it’s not going to be one of those evenings which run like a military operation. We’ve all been there, arriving twenty minutes after the allotted time to be greeted with “oh hello, we were expecting you at eight.” You wait for the drink which doesn’t come because the dinner is being rescued and plated up, and before you know what’s happening you’re eating. At eleven o’clock on the dot the hosts start looking for their PJ’s and complain about the unearthly hour they have to be up the next morning. Ah yes, the only thing left to do is go home and wait for the indigestion to set in.

Then again they might have called three times to remind us of the time because they know some of the Spanishisms have rubbed off on us over the years. Timekeeping in Spain is a moveable feast. If we’re having friends over we’ve actually stopped giving a time because it means absolutely NOTHING. It’s not unusual for Spanish people to arrive two hours late for a dinner invitation and think nothing of it. It’s simply not a problem. We just say “come over on Saturday evening” and often don’t start cooking till our guests are here because “evening” can be any time from nine onwards.

All things considered I can now see why they’re probably getting nervous about getting twenty people with differing degrees of Spanishness to sit around the same table at the same time, to eat a meal which has been timed to be ready by a certain time. Let’s hope some bozo doesn’t telephone just as we’re about to eat, as I did yesterday in the House Of Pudlin. Sorry Susan!