That’s entertainment!

 So you’re thinking about doing some entertaining? This means decisions, decisions, and yet more decisions. It’s no time to be indecisive...I’m almost certain.

 We like to entertain at home. I mean full-on, people-round-for-the-evening type of entertainment. We cook, they eat, they drink, we cook, they leave, we wonder if they had a good time or were drunk and whether it’s the same thing anyway.

 Entertaining at home is evolving at an incredible rate. The days of just lighting a barbie and inviting acquaintances to cook their own meat on it is long gone. As are snags rolled up in white bread with tomato sauce. No, now we have to decide if we want a dinner party (bit posh), cocktail party (sounds posh but is a lot easier) or a barbie (doesn’t sound posh, isn’t that easy really and depends as much on weather as food to be a success).

 Then there are the variations like the pool party – which is any of the above, only in and around the pool. This is much easier to pull off if you have plastic plates, cutlery and glasses, you have no shame about your body and you own a pool. There’s also the kid’s party where the parents, after a few beers, find themselves bouncing around in the giant inflatable castle or wrestling in sumo suits as the kids shake their heads in disgust, go inside and load the X-Box.

 There are just so many aspects to consider when you’re throwing a party. Like the floor covering. Hadn’t thought of that, had you? Well, if you’ve ever just polished the floorboards and then seen the damage that several pairs of high heels can do in an evening, it’s a sight you’d never forget. I knew I should have worn my favourite pair of thongs, but one thing lead to another....And carpet....red wine – need I say more?

 Then you have to decide if you want the festivities outside, inside or a combination of both. Better to make it one or the other, or everyone you want to talk to will be outside but all the people you don’t know will be with you in the kitchen when you’re trying to fry the jumbo economy pack of spring rolls in one frypan. If it’s outside, you have to think of all the creatures of the night, other than your mate Baz, that can give people a nasty bite. We’ve got a couple of those bamboo citronella lanterns. They look very Pacific Islands and stop the mozzies biting anyone over 2.5 metres tall. Any mozzie lower than that is below the fumes and continues to suck at pieces of bare flesh.

 The party food isn’t too important unless someone has allergies and even then, if it’s a smorgasbord affair, they can work around it. But if the event is a dinner party, some subtle inquiry at the initial invitation stage can prevent that embarrassing conversation while you wait for the ambulance to arrive after an allergy-sufferer collapses purple-faced on sampling your Secret Prawn Surprise.

 Friend-matching is even more important. The more the merrier isn’t a cliché for nothing. The more friends you invite, the more chance you have that they’ll actually like some of your other friends. Just because you like them doesn’t mean everyone else will. I once had close friends nearly come to blows when they met for the first time at a party...save that for Christmas day with the rellies.

 Setting the mood music is another consideration. No two people like exactly the same music. Except maybe twins. And even then, sometimes one twin prefers the left speaker to the right and vice versa. The trick is volume: if the music is low enough nobody is really bothered, but you’ve avoided those awkward silences. If there’s a lull in conversation, people can try to work out if they’re listening to jazz, classical, or Cold Chisel.

 Once the party is in full swing, there is the constant problem of clean glasses. People drink from a glass, put it down, go to the loo, forget which one was theirs and help themselves to another one. Before you know it, twenty people have forty glasses on the go and you’re serving champagne in coffee mugs.

 The worst part is cleaning up the next day after they’ve all gone. Someone should invent a glass detector to track down the glasses and bottles tucked away in forgotten places. A cigarette-butt detector would do it, as most of the bottles and cans have doubled as ashtrays. But there’s an easier way to reduce the clean-up. Don’t ask people to bring a bottle, make them take one away instead.

Labours of love.

 We had overnight guests the other night. They’d taken on the task of sanding and polishing the timber floors in their inner-city terrace. Carpet-layers must be doing it tough – it seems half the country now has polished floorboards, while the other half makes do with the wall-to-wall, beige berber twist-pile that’s been there since the seventies. The only new fitted carpet I’ve seen of late is in photographs for the Gold Coast sweepstakes draws – strangely it always seems to be brand new beige-berber.

 Anyway, we offered our friends a room for the night, as their plan was to put a coat of sealer down last thing Saturday afternoon. The fumes would be pretty hard to take and they jumped at the chance not to inhale for a night. It was only between the barbecued snags and the char-grilled Atlantic salmon cutlets – sophisticated barbecue chef, eh?! – that we discovered why they were so grateful.

 It seems that to polish their floors they’d had to pile all their lounge-room furniture into their eat-in kitchen. By the time they had five bookshelves, two lounges, coffee table, dining table, chairs, television, and hi-fi in the kitchen (they wisely sent their large golden retriever on holiday), they were left with a twisted corridor to the backyard the width of a slim person turned sideways. They reckoned if their feet had been any bigger they couldn’t have got through. The previous night, they’d finished a coat of sealer at about eight in the evening, and then had to squeeze through into the backyard. There they played cards until two in the morning waiting for the floor to be dry enough to walk on, so they could reach their bedroom. Well, they didn’t really play cards all the time. The cards became too soggy in the rain to shuffle and the print was coming off so their best hands were actually on their hands.

 Some friends of ours have broken up, citing renovations as grounds for divorce. Seems the main grounds for divorce are now (starting with most common): infidelity, renovating, irreconcilable differences of a non-renovating nature, or desertion to go fishing/to the footy/to the cricket/to the pub/to live in the shed.

 When a couple sets out together on a life of renovating, they have to be compatible. We know one couple who now live in a renovated house where no detail is left undone, including skirting outlets for connecting speakers to the home-entertainment surround-sound system. We knew the relationship would survive, but the time scale they imagined was always going to be too short for such a pair of perfectionists. Come midwinter they were in a state of constant retreat from the builder’s forces. There were workmen in the lounge-room, in the kitchen, in the hall, in the bathroom, and in the roof. At first light, the new attacks came in waves: plumber, renderers, roof tilers, wall tilers, and electrician. The noise was unbearable, with radios blaring, mobile phones ringing, endless tuneless whistling – even the occasional sound of hammering and drilling.

 Finally, on a cold, starlit night they made an escape and came round for dinner. Their house had temporary electricity, but only enough for lighting. They sat in front of our gas heater, like refugees from a small communist country where they had to queue for three days to buy a slice of bread and a lump of coal.

 Their finished house is a sight to behold. And you can compare it with the old, because being true renovators; they have more before and after photos than a weight-watching advertisement. And there’s no faster way to weight loss than doing your own renovating. My father once worked with a bloke who’d just bought a new house and was renovating in the evenings. He was putting new holes in his belt within a fortnight. After a month we were concerned he might slip through the gaps in the floorboards – and they were tongue-and-groove!

The cat’s whiskers.

 One could assume that cats are the superior life form. There’s no doubt cats have got it made. Humans feed them, and then go off to work every day so they can afford the house and garden for the cats to laze around in the lap of luxury. The thing that sets cat people apart from say, dog-owners, is that cats choose us. If a cat doesn’t like you, he moves next door. Or two houses down. Or, if he really dislikes you, goes feral. So cat people have a perpetual need to prove to their cats that they are worth living with. That’s why we believe that we’re such nice people – our cats give us daily tests to prove it.

 Pet-food companies want cats’ approval just as much as we do and are all vying for their wholesome meaty chunk of the action. Small foil containers with elegant names and extravagant contents. Cats love them. But there’s a sting in the tail; the next time you give them ‘normal’ tinned food they look at you as though you’re trying to feed them dog meat – the ultimate insult to a cat. My cat used to love the different varieties of ‘casseroles’ and ‘chunks in jelly’. He also liked those Devon-type sausages in different flavours. In fact, if there were a sausage made of jelly in gravy, it would have been all he’d eat. I always wondered if I was killing him with kindness. Was it the equivalent of feeding him hamburgers and chips?

 The vet gave me some ‘Professional Cat Food’ to try on my cat. Now this is brilliant marketing. It really appeals to a cat’s sense of superiority. He’s a professional cat, he thinks. This is what he should be eating, because he’s not just any old moggy, he’s a professional. And how about a tablecloth and a linen napkin for good measure?

 There are many feline comforts, such as cat flaps – magnet-operated for the cat who likes security – cat baskets and the humble, yet vital, litter tray. You can buy him cat litter made of recycled phone books; soft, strong and in two colours – off-white or off-yellow. That’s what the Telstra book muncher does – you give him your phone book, he munches it into cat litter, and you buy it back. No wonder Telstra is so attractive to investors. But I do think cat litter made from recycled phone books is a sound idea. It’s comforting to know that if your cat were ever unable to get to his tray he could make alternative arrangements in the Yellow Pages.

 But it’s not easy to impress your cat, is it? You can spend a small fortune on a sophisticated array of gizmos and still be left with the impression that Puss thinks you’re a bit of a try-hard dummy.

 On the home-entertainment front there are toys. Usually the toy resembles a mouse and has a bell on it. This sort of stereotypical thinking is very insulting to a cat who understandably thinks that your total level of understanding of him derives from Tom and Jerry cartoons. Then there are the miniature carpet-covered objects and pretend trees. These are supposed to stop Kitty plucking the arms of your new lounge – the trouble is, they don’t make any in a full-sized lounge shape that your cat would really enjoy scratching instead. So you arrive home from the pet shop with a box full of toys, the climbing tree and the scratching post. And your cat loves them. He loves them because it’s his chance to show that he can’t be bought with money. They love playing mind games with us. Their usual reaction is a curious couple of sniffs, a yawn and then either return to sleep or a saunter to the food bowl. What your cat won’t do is play, climb, or scratch what you’ve just bought in the vain hope of receiving some gratitude.

 Whatever you do, don’t demean yourself any further. There’s nothing more pathetic in a cat’s eyes than to see a grown human being down on his or her knees, patting at a plastic mouse with a hand clenched like a cat’s paw. Or pretending to scratch a carpet-covered witch’s hat. Your cat knows this isn’t what you usually do. And it doesn’t relate the sad image back to its own graceful feline actions. He’s not refusing to copy you because he’s stupid; you’re stupid to think he’d be so undignified. If your cat wants to humiliate you further, he might sit in the box or play with a piece of the packaging from the toys, to show he can make his own entertainment, thank you very much.

 I made my cat wear a collar with a bell – to protect native wildlife. That’s my excuse anyway. Actually, it was my revenge. I knew he found it humiliating. That way he knew how I felt when I was cleaning his bowl, washing his blanket or playing with Mr Mouse – a Christmas present – which I had tied to the Hills Hoist.

Going down.

 Don’t ask me to chair a meeting – it’ll end in tears. I have to confess – I’m a chair breaker. I’ve never intentionally tried to give you the impression that I’m a skinny person, but I’ve never compared myself with Kirstie Alley either. It’s not that I’m particularly fat or heavy – although, to keep that in perspective, I think Mike Tyson’s fighting weight is only a shade over my walking weight. But put me in a certain kind of chair and it’s only a matter of time before one of us cracks. Up to now, it’s always been the chair. And I’m sure my reaction is a lot less dangerous than Iron Mike’s would be. You have my assurance that, however spectacular my fall, everyone’s ears will remain intact.

 The first time I encountered the problem was a few years back when I was sitting in a director’s chair on a friend’s balcony. Fortunately, I didn’t have my back to the seventh-floor view, because as I reached forward for a peanut or chip – the memory’s hazy about which – there was a ripping sound and I was catapulted backwards. I knew the chair must have collapsed, but didn’t know if the ripping sound coincided with a new opening in my jeans. In fact, the chair seat had torn in two, and my jeans were intact – not the worst result possible. Of course, the laughter and accusations implied that it was in some way my fault. ‘Lard-arse’, I believe, was one theory. But my inspection of the seat fabric revealed years of neglect. Salt-water corrosion and sun damage had made the chair an accident waiting to happen. They can think themselves lucky I didn’t sue.

 Now, I like to make people laugh, but not by falling over, off or under things. And there’s nothing more annoying than people guffawing with laughter just because you’re no longer sitting in front of them. I mean, why is that funny? Of course, they make concerned noises about your health, but this is usually after everyone has had a good laugh and a few puns have been tossed around, ‘Three chairs for Merc!’

 Last Christmas Day was the most recent demolition of some friends’ furniture. It looked solid as a rock, a stylish, all-timber folding chair. Imagine my surprise when I leaned forward for my second slice of cake and found myself heading backwards onto the lawn. The timber had rotted through and the whole back of the chair had snapped off. ‘Had a bit too much Christmas chair,’ somebody said. Oh, how I laughed.

 I’m just as destructive with our own chairs, which I always try to repair and which always break when I’m testing them. Believe me; most of those supposedly invincible adhesives are unsuitable for fixing chairs. So far, the count is one director’s chair, one safari chair and one dining chair. The only one that was repairable was the dining chair, not that I sit on it. That’s the generous kind of person I am, prepared to let someone else get the laughs for a change.

 The common factor seems to be that the chair breaks either when I’m leaning forward of when I’m getting up. Now to explain this is a bit tricky, but it’s all to do with moments. Structural engineers will know what I’m getting at. When I’m sitting, my back is reasonably perpendicular to the seat and, therefore, to the ground below. But when I lean forward, that part of my weight is trying to push my whole body backwards, with only the chair providing the resistance. Or in my case, often not providing enough resistance to stay in one piece. It’s like why you should climb over a gate at the hinge and not at the catch...only it’s not really. You see, I’m completely blameless. Now, if only our teachers had explained vectors by describing people reaching for cake while seated in a director’s chair, I’m sure we’d all have achieved better grades.

 So there you have it. Ask me at your own risk if I’d like to sit down. And always give outdoor furniture the once-over before sitting down. Remember the eighth rule of comedy: it’s always funny when someone falls out of a chair – unless that someone is you.