Tuesday, 9 July 2013


MY ADORABLE DAUGHTER pulls out her phone during high tea at Langdon Hall. (It took everything in my power not to shriek: "I hope you're calling Pizza Depot, because I'm gonna need more food!") 
There's not much I wouldn't do for my daughter. For any of them, but we're focusing on this one because it just happens to be her birthday. Plus she is the only one of my spawn who has not yet issued a fatwah on being referenced on my blog (I will see to it that you are richly rewarded for your fatal naivete, my pet, if I ever accumulate enough money to leave to anyone) so we're talking about her and only her today.

On her actual birthday a week ago, I told her that she is literally the sunshine of my life. So when she asked if we could all go to high tea at Langdon Hall to celebrate, I immediately said "JESUS CHRIST! REALLY?" In my inner voice. In my outer voice, I said, "Whatever you want, sweetheart."

I don't know, maybe I didn't inherit the girlie girl gene, but getting dressed up for the special occasion of having your wallet raped has never been my thing. In case you've never been to high tea at Langdon Hell Hall, well that's perfect because I can use this opportunity to scream "DON'T EVER CHANGE!" but also to explain that what high tea consists of is a small, three-tiered tray of aggressively mediocre sandwiches, decent home-made scones, bafflingly flavourless desserts and a small pot of tea per person. Minimum of six people required. $32 plus taxes per person. This information will become glaringly relevant in about one more paragraph.

"ARE THOSE FLOWERS EDIBLE?" my granddaughter asked. 
"Yes, dear, that's how you can tell them apart from the sandwiches!" I replied.

True, the decor was gorgeous. The place settings were impeccable. The service was well-mannered. But it suddenly occurred to me as we sat there wondering which of the glum little sandwiches we should try next that we were paying more than 200 bucks for a small tray of crap food and weak tea.
Or, as one of the ladies bluntly stated, "Well I've just paid $70 for absolute shite." 

By now you  may be thinking: "What kind of mother publicly buggers her own daughter's birthday party?" but I think the point here is that people are crazy. The place was clotted-cream-and-jam-packed full of hat-wearing women who seemed to think they were spending the best money they'd ever spent.

I realize we were paying for the "experience," and believe me, we had a good time. But we would have had a good time at Tim Hortons, for God's sake. We bring it with us. All of which is my way of easing gently into this announcement: Guess what, daughter? Next year we're having your birthday party at Tim Hortons. 
(What? You can buy a helluva lot of timbits for 200 bucks!)