Yesterday evening I did something that I normally never do — I declined an invitation to a party. (Since the invitation had been rather a last-minute thing anyway, I could see that it was a last ditch effort to add a Single Young-ish Male to the guest list, so I didn’t feel too bad about pleading an awful case of the vapors.)

Usually, I take invitations, even backhanded ones, because those of us in reduced circumstances don’t dare turn down free food and booze, and it’s always fun to visit with a group of people.

I turned this one down because I knew what was going to be served, and even with the possibility of some interesting people, I knew it wasn’t even going to be worth the carfare it would take to get there. This host is in his own right a delightful person, but seems to have a reception only because it’s the Done Thing. The whole shindig was supposed to last only from three until five. Who on earth has a party that only lasts two hours? Worse, the only available beverage is some concoction called “Glögg”, ostensibly Scandinavian in nature, that I can only assume harks back to the thirty-two minutes in the late ’60s when Scandinavian cuisine and culture were “in” here. The stuff is potent spiked wine that can bring on a headache faster than a rubber mallet.

I’m not implying that hosts should always have a full bar ready to sate their guests’ greed, but an alternative would be nice. Then again, perhaps the Glögg is there by design. I’m sure that when faced with nothing but Glögg people don’t mind leaving after two interminable hours.