My Thrifty Friends Invited Me to a Birthday Party—But I Went Home Hungry

My penny-pinching friends invited me to a birthday do. I returned home famished.

I have a small group of mates Ive come to call rather thrifty. They scrimp on nearly everythingfood, clothes, the lot. Its not for lack of funds though; theyre actually quite well-off. Always flush, always careful. They could easily afford plenty.

I only see them for special occasionsotherwise, its just a call here and there. A month back, they asked me to their birthday gathering. I went, and I came home positively starving.

On the chosen morning, I tucked the present Id bought ages ago into my handbag and headed off to work. The invitation was for four oclock, so around midday I only had a coffee and a couple of digestives. On purpose, reallyI was saving myself for the bash, expecting something hearty.

The hour arrived, and I made my way to their place. I handed over the gift, wished them all sorts of joy and good health, and piped up, half-joking, Im ravenousnot eaten a thing! My friend grinned and said, Not to worry, everythings ready for you.

There were six guests, plus our hostsa cosy bunch of eight. As I walked into the lounge, I noticed immediately there was no dining table. Only a little two-seater, perched up by the wall. No chairs. Seemed they’d gone for a sort of help-yourself affair. It wouldve been nice to sit down after work and eat properly, rather than all of us squashed onto a sofa. Oh well, buffet it was.

My friend wheeled in a small, round table with provisions arranged neatly. In that moment, I regretted my earlier restraint at lunch. On that table(I even counted, unashamed)tiny plates sat decked with exactly eight slices each: eight slices of smoked sausage (my favourite), eight bits of cold roast, eight of cheddar, eight wafer-thin tomato slices, eight of cucumber. Everything so neatly sliced, feather-light, almost vanishing. Two dinkily-small bowls of salad, one for each half of the group. The fruits had been chopped, counted, and arrangedeight pieces. To top off this feast, a bottle of red stood at attention. Eat up, dears!

There I sat, chewing on a corner of sausage and cheese, stomach grumbling and nerves taut. Didnt dare drink too much, lest I topple without sufficient snacks. My friend piped up, Just fetching the hot dish. Ah, hope springs eternal, I thought. At last, something warm!

Out came the hostess with dinner: a singular baked potato and a lone chicken drumstick on each plate. I nearly laughed myself silly. There was, I must admit, a proper cakeone redeeming normal-sized bit of it all. Fun was had; chatter ensued; and after an hour and a half, I made my exitravenous.

On the way home, I nipped into the shop, picked up a few groceries, and at home cooked myself an honest English supper. Thats how my friends managed to save a bob or two, even where guests were concerned.

Really, why throw a birthday party if youve neither the nerve nor the desire to properly look after your guests? The logic of it, slipping as it always does in dreams, never fails to amuse me.