I become aware of the AAA sensation, 4.8, 4.9, 5, 5.1.
An extra chair is found and we all slide round to make a space for Alf. A glass of red wine is poured for him and the bottle is settled nearby. 5.2, 5.3, 5.4.
I introduce Alf to the couple he hasn’t yet met. One half works in recruitment and has found me several great colleagues. The other manages our favoured office Christmas party venue. This is the extent of my knowledge of where our tribes had crossed. I forget sometimes that all those hours while I am at work, Alf is amusing himself. He listens. He plants. He pickles beetroot. He plays pétanque. He cooks. He takes himself off for a sauna. He is, as he always has been, happy to help people out. He watches what goes on around him and engages anyone and everyone in conversation. He asks bucket loads of questions. He is a serial wonderer. Curious George has nothing on Alf.
It is always surprising for people when it comes out that Alf grew up in England since his accent is American bar a few remaining nuances. Any attempts to imitate an English accent come a sorry second to Dick van Dyke’s cockney efforts. He talks about his schooling at Highgate. My recruitment friend knows someone of roughly the same age as Alf who attended the same school. There is talk of football and cricket. Inevitably, Alf releases the rugby songs. They are well known and well received. It is fun up until the point where Alf is looming toward the crudest of versus with his scant eyebrows raised over comedic, naughty eyes that hesitate only slightly in anticipation of my objections. 5.5, 5.6. I cut across my filterless father. He has had a new knee from Jelenia Gora and new lenses from Prague. I wonder where I can send him for the fitting of a new filter. A filter would be a very welcome thing in a father, I should imagine. A filter is what gets you on the guest list right from the outset.
There are random moments of hilarity. They seem, at least to be random now, writing about them some time later while under the influence of Rooiboss rather than Rioja. At some stage, Alf claims he has no need to wear antiperspirant. My long time friend takes a trip around the table to put this to the test. We all assume he has passed when she doesn’t flinch.
Amid all the merriment, Alf is guilty of one indiscretion, divulging a reference that was not his to make. 5.7, 5.8.
Not long before this Moroccan evening, Alf told my husband and I of a lovely lady from a local estate agent who he observed grappling with a For Sale sign in the attempt to put it up in the court where we live. After amusing himself watching for a time, Alf went out to lend a hand. Some time later Alf reports that she was back to remove the sign having brought support in the form of another lovely young lady. He chatted to them both. Respectively, they turn out to be the daughter and the girlfriend of the son of our guests.
Over the hedge from our garden is an empty field of agricultural status. On the limited occasions when there has been some activity upon it, we indulge in self-interested speculation as to whether someone will manage to change the status of the field from agricultural to residential. Perhaps this is why, with arms crossed, Alf watches a chap ploughing the field one day, in pursuit of a hot topic over which we can contemplate at dinner. Subsequent to Moroccan night, we learn that the plough was manned by the owner of the field, who also happens to be the boyfriend of our couple’s daughter.
Although none of my friend’s family were the victims of Alf’s road rage, the contacts between these two small families more than substantiate my point about the smallness of our island, I feel. I do not believe this will deter Alf from his natural instincts. Sorry Jersey drivers. Apologies to the clerk at the Social Security office who relayed the rule to Alf that he must produce his birth certificate and that his passport would not do as a form of identification. In fairness to Alf, that is a stupid rule but I can imagine that the messenger did not fare well. I tried Jersey peeps. He is actually very nice. They love him at the bank. If I go to the bank on my own, they rush up to ask me how he is. If I go with him, they hug him before we leave.
As our last friends leave the party at 3:30am, they say they are keen to get this group of people together again, at their house. I may or may not like it, but Alf is very likely to feature, they say. I smile, pleased at the gesture and genuinely delighted that Alf has been a hit.
Now, how to find a way to make Alf relax a little bit less so I can relax a little bit more?
Living with Alf 