If you are invited to my house ever, eat your dinner first. Really. Don't say to yourself: "There'll probably be nibbles." There won't.
I don't understand nibbles. I don't know what I'm supposed to buy, or serve them in, or put out. If you come to my house, you're having cake and that's the end of it.
Yesterday was Mr Coffee's birthday. People were invited to the house, and offered a choice of three types of cake, scones and cream, or biscuits.
Children came, and were filled full of sugar before being sent off home to tantrum in the comfort of their own homes.
There may have been a fruit bowl around somewhere, but everyone did their best to ignore it. Good for them.
Completely healthy people are beyond my understanding. Those who don't eat cake or drink wine scare me - they represent the same uncomfortable other-world that seems to lurk down alleyways in the dark and makes you take a cab home from the cinema.
The other day the mother of the Littlest Latte's friend came round for coffee while the children trashed the house and fought with each other (at this age they call it 'playing'). I offered her a cupcake. A good cupcake. None of your mediocre stuff.
"Oh they do look nice," said the hitherto perfectly nice and friendly lady. "But I won't. I just had a baked potato."
This comment made no sense. This previously witty, lovely and chatty lady suddenly seemed to me strange, and dangerous, and quite possibly to be avoided in future.