Sunday lunch hysteria

Picture the scene. It’s Sunday and I’ve invited some friends over for lunch. I have a vision of it being a lovely relaxed luncheon where we will talk in an engaging way about each others’ lives – kids, jobs, hobbies. I'll cook some amazing masterpieces that will be delivered effortlessly to the table with a smile. They will taste amazing. Even the children will eat the food and possibly have a pleasant conversation with our friends’ kids rather than gawping at a screen all afternoon. We’ll all relax and think how lovely it is and what a great way to spend a Sunday.

Now cut to reality. And this is always the same reality when I make lunch for friends. It’s 11:00. I got up at 9:00, partly because I need a lie-in at the weekends and partly because I stayed up until 1:00 watching a terrible film and drinking red wine. I then have a leisurely breakfast, comforting myself that I have all the time in the world to prepare lunch. I mean, there’s only one couple plus kids coming and I’ve chosen some moderately simple things to cook, albeit each part of the meal comes from a different cookery book. Plus I need to do some sausages because my kids at least are quite fussy and won’t eat anything that so much as a herb has even touched.

Then I survey my surroundings.

The kitchen looks like a veritable bomb has gone off in it containing a large amount of child-related detritus - random socks, pens, football cards, bits of lego, a crumpled up permission slip for a school trip.

I shout them. ‘Come and move your stuff.’ I wait. There’s nothing. They’re upstairs, curtains closed and heads stuck into their iPads like they’re crack cocaine.

I shout a little louder. Still no response.

‘IF YOU DON’T COME NOW, THERE’S NO IPAD FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!’ I scream.

That one works. I hear the loud thud thud thuds coming down the stairs, like two reluctant dinosaurs approaching.

After a bit of persuasion and a lot of trantrumming (mainly from me) they clear their stuff away and I can get on with cooking. Then I look at the surfaces and realise that there are dirty plates on the side from breakfast. I’ll just clear those away. I open the dishwasher to find that it’s not worked properly and there’s an error message showing. Damn it. Meanwhile my husband is missing in action. He is apparently in the lounge but at the same time lost on the battlefield of technology. His head is in the TV because it won’t connect to Netflix, and really, life isn’t going to be worth living later if he can’t watch whatever boxset is consuming his hours. It’s clearly a life and death situation.

‘We have people arriving in 2 hours,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘You need to help.’ He promises me he will later but waves me away for now and I realise I’m probably better off without him.

So I pull open the cookery books. OK Jamie, Gordon, Marcus – it’s time for you to do your stuff. I rush around the kitchen like an Olympic athlete (OK, my slightly flabby impersonation of one) grabbing stuff from the fridge, knives, chopping boards, red wine vinegar, sea salt etc etc. I seem to spend more time reading the recipe than actually cooking it. Only Usain Bolt with a team of sous-chefs could cook this stuff in the 15 minutes it claims it takes. I grumble that I can’t find the samphire but I’m sure I put it on the supermarket order. What does it actually look like anyway? I rush to get something in the oven and end up spilling the red-wine vinegar all over my new top in my haste. I worry that the chocolate mousse won’t have time to set and the pork may not be cooked at the same time as the parmesan dauphinoise potatoes.

I realise it is now 12:15, I still haven’t showered and everywhere needs hoovering. Which do I prioritise? Something needs to come out of the oven in 30 minutes – is that enough time to wash and dry my hair? They’re due here at 13:00. I decide to speed hoover (nowhere near as much fun as I imagine speed dating to be) and then to shower. I bark instructions at my husband to listen out for the timer and take it out of the oven when it beeps and then rush upstairs for a shower. I choose a suitable outfit (looks nice, but not like I’ve made too much effort) and then come downstairs. I run around once more with the hoover and then try and look like the whole thing has been effortless at the same time as mopping my brow. I check my phone. They’re going to be 30 minutes late. Excellent! That gives me time to hoover the stairs as well and maybe to pop up to the shops and get some crisps and dips to nibble until the main course is ready?

I open the front door and am about to leave the house when I stop. I take a deep breath. Why am I doing this? Does any of this  really matter? Why I am so wedded to the idea that my friends have to think I’m tidy when they actually all know I’m messy? Am I being myself or just acting like some Stepford wife lunatic? Why do I feel the need to impress like keeping up with the Jones’? I pour myself a glass of prosecco and sit down.

Question: What is the point of this lunch? Answer: to get together and connect with good friends.

So why am I putting myself through this unnecessary stress? Will how good the food is or how tidy my house is change how well I connect with them? No. Some of the best nights I’ve had with friends have been where we lived in a dive, ordered a take-away, drank cheap wine and laughed all night.

Sure, I need to show I’ve made an effort with the food, to show I care about them. And possibly to make the place look sanitary enough that they will actually want to eat in it. But my friends are coming to see me - not how tidy my house is, how well I can copy someone else’s recipe and whether my children will eat something more exciting than sausages. I am missing the point. They’re coming to share what’s going on in their lives and listen to what’s going on in mine. They’re coming to exchange advice and help on all manner of issues, from thorny work problems that need solving, to top tips on places to visit, or just to offer words of support on new endeavours. The point is that friends are there to be enjoyed and treasured, not to be impressed. This is the joy of having friends over for lunch, all the other bits are mere details. Next time maybe I’ll order a Domino’s, let it all hang out and not even hoover the stairs :). They’ll probably love me all the more for it.