It's 7.30 on Friday night, in a large side room of the Golden Ball, a real ale pub within the walls of the ancient city of York, the committee of the venerable Scarcroft and District Allotment Committee are sitting nervously sipping thier orange juices, thier party hats all pristine and jaunty, thier boots polished and their best seasonal sweaters on, but with a haunted look in their eyes...will anyone come to their party? Would the vol au vents go untouched and the dips gradually crust over? Would they be left making awkward small talk with thier fellow friendless committee members?
Sara furtively checks her watch, still only 7.32, still time for a thirsty plot holder or two to arrive, even if it is only Hugh. Mike O shifts on his bar stool, will Glenys be angry if he is back home by 8.15 carrying a 100 unused and unwanted paper plates and festive napkins? He wonders if he could sell the surplus crisps in the hut. Graham weeps silently as his homemade quiche congeals. Tina anxiously adjusts the SADAA private party sign on the door and wonders if it gives off the wrong impression. Clarie weighs up if anyone will notice if she slips out and joins the lively conversation at the bar in the next room. The landlady makes the excuse of glass clearing in order to scowl at the wasted empty seats on a Friday night. Malcolm nurses a pint of Pedigree and twitches uncomfortably in his best holeless jumper. Chris W dreams of Spain and proper fiestas and Heather dozes quietly in the corner, cuddling her wine glass. Caroline mentally sketches out wishful fictional blog headlines 'Allotment Association Awarded ASBO After night of Alcohol driven Anarchy'. Tom considers how much better allotment committees were in the old days when no one bothered with fancy new fangled allotment parties, he could be at home watching Strictly and twirling Janice round the living room. 'Bibamus, moriendum est' Chris A mutters grumpily to no one in particular. And so they wait......
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