I am not a cook. I am an opener of packets. A slicer of boxes of delicious stuff from Marks and Spencer which only require me to press microwave buttons. And occasionally I am an eater of cans of tuna over the sink, like a dextrous but dim cat.
Anyway, they are getting kebabs of two kinds. Vegetable and marinated tofu or monkfish and scallops with shiitake mushrooms. Served with vegetable-infested couscous (I think there's probably a better name for it, but whatever.)
The monkfish has marinated in lemon juice, thyme and olive oil, and is in the fridge, like botulism waiting to happen.
Please oh lord do not let me poison this gathering for they are two thirds of all my friends who live in London. If I kill them there'll be no one to go to the pub with, except M or N.
My dad is coming to stay for a few days tomorrow. He owes me two hunded quid and is taking me to see the new Tom Stoppard play and he's ridiculously excited about being in London. All of which is extremely endearing so I am looking forward to it, even though I know I am going to get lectured about all of my failings at great length.
On the other hand he is travelling home at 8am on the morning of the 16th (his birthday) which means I have to get up at 6am to make sure he is at King's Cross in time for the train. The reason? He wants to go see football at home at 3pm. And this is a team that couldn't hit a cow's arse with a banjo at the moment, much less score a goal.
That bit is less endearing, obviously.
No guests yet. Hmmph.