Asian Party

Last week I received a hand-written note from one of our suppliers. The note was on a card of good quality, but written in the tiniest, most satanic hand-writing possible, that I could just about discern the words: “…come to party on ______ March 2008”.

And so I went, and found myself in what can be called a “Asian” party.
entre nous soit dit**, I shall attempt to describe it now.

In a Asian party, the sexes are segregated. The men aggregate around a bottle of whisky. The women congregate in a puritanical fashion in the kitchen area (though they didn’t necessarily cook).

In the spirit of comme il faut**, I had carried with me a bottle of France’s finest (though this was a profound mistake: I could only watch in horror, as one of the party people smelt the wine, then proceeded to dilute his whisky with it. No wonder these men don’t get laid. My father, mon… papa… may his soul rest in peace, must be spinning in his grave).

I indulged in meaningless chit-chat with some of the dainty ladies, one of whom was introduced by a lurking, misshapen man in a manner of great formality using the possessive: “my fiancee and wife to-be” (Aren’t they the same?). The matronly rule among the women I spoke to seemed to be – ne montrez pas vos jambes (“don’t show your legs!”). Had to put on my best Dostoevskian grin for most of the evening.

The food was an hour late, but as good as the best meal I have had.

During my early days in Kenya, I briefly consorted with an asian woman – pretty, well-read, and a bit hairy (the French in me quite liked that part). Actually , “consorted” would be excessif, there were a couple of dinner dates and the faint glimmer of a kiss. Then I started receiving threatening phone calls from her brother, and her father – the fervency and foresight of these messages was to protect the purity, and prevent impairment of the morals of their adult sister / child.
Such tyranny is the nature of honor.

[** :-
entre nous soit dit – between you and me
comme il faut – good manners; decorum]

Dropping of trousers

Today the opposition guy dropped his trousers. If this had been instead someone like yasser arafat, I bet he would have been in the forefront, chest out, demanding that the first bullet be placed in him. What a wimp.