Having people to dinner is a stressful affair (From Preston and Leyland Citizen)

Having people to dinner is a stressful affair

11:04am Monday 23rd February 2009

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My children love Come Dine With Me, the Channel 4 show in which people try to impress each other with their skills in setting up and cooking a dinner party.

I’ve seen it only once, and it was toe-curling.

It was the celebrity version, and featured the model, Caprice, who served food beside her indoor swimming pool, while a couple of synchronised swimmers performed.

I’m not adverse to enjoying a bite or two beside a picturesque lake or river with the odd yacht scudding around, but the idea of tucking in while half a dozen women slosh around two feet away isn’t my idea of a relaxing night.

Still, at least she was game to take part.

I haven’t given a dinner party in decades – the closest I came was having the staff from my daughter’s nursery over for fish and chips back in 2002.

I clearly recall panicking wildly about whether I had enough mushy peas and whether anyone would want brown bread (brown may be a healthier option, but it should never be used for chip sandwiches, or bacon for that matter).

Having people to dinner is a stressful affair – one glance at the ‘dinnerpartyplanning’ website was enough to give me palpitations.

From table setting and menu planning, to choosing the wine, and serving the cheese – there’s so much to take into account.

We don’t even notice our mis-matched crockery and canteen cutlery, but other people would.

I hate background music at meal times, but others may expect a bit of crooning as they eat.

Then there’s the wine: dinner party rules state never take wine unless you know the hosts really well, but what if the hosts choose an inappropriate tipple? My friend’s husband is a wine buff and visibly cringes if he spots me, cheap plonk in hand, at the supermarket checkout.

Seating arrangements are another headache.

I once dined beside an intellectual chap who blabbed on and on about the legacy of Thatcherism.

I was totally out of my depth and, after muttering something nonsensical about coal mines and poll tax, tried in vain to swing the conversation around to the latest gossip from Celebrity Love Island.

Last month I went to my first dinner party for years, at my neighbour’s house.

It was lovely – nice food, drink (my wine was accepted without so much as a glance at the label) and no mention of Thatcherism or house prices, a staple of dinner party conversation for years.

But as for giving one myself, you can’t swing a cat in our dining room.

There wouldn’t be space for the synchronised cheerleaders, which one would expect with a dollop of tiramisu.

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