I have a new friend, whom I shall call Liesl*. Liesl lives on the road parallel to ours in a mammoth house, for which I know she and her husband paid over £2.5million because I RightMoved it (don’t pretend you haven’t ever done the same).
I’m not jealous; her front door is the wrong shade of blue.
Last week we went to the house of which I’m not remotely jealous for a BBQ: the most irksome of middle class social events. Why charge a man who doesn’t ordinarily set foot in a kitchen with the mass catering of food that comes with an E.coli warning? And why would I want to arrive for 1pm, only to have to wait until 3pm to actually get anything to eat? And by the way brioche burger buns are disgusting.
But anyway I digress – it’s not Liesl’s fault the British general public sees fit to spoil decent food with a naked flame every time the sun shines – my point is Liesl has a new parasol, which succeeds in being both chic and functional. One can enjoy one’s blackened chicken skewer in a south-facing garden without the worry of UVA sun damage.
We discussed The Parasol for at least 17 minutes: its origins; its cost; its delivery; its final resting place within the garden. I am even privy to the conversation Liesl and Mr Liesl had regarding its assembly (something along the lines of, “Well I’ll f***ing do it then”. Hilarious).
It was as I was drinking my third glass of very pale pink rosé, awaiting a cheeseburger with a brioche bun (“We’re about 45 minutes away from eating – you’re not hungry yet are you?” "Nope don't worry I'll just eat this child") and admiring my friend’s new parasol and its minutiae that I realised the inevitable has happened.
I Am Suburbia.
*We have been watching a lot of Sound of Music recently; the girls do not seem to be as fond of Kurt and Gretl as I remember being.