The BBQ

The people, a motley crew, of almost-chavs with the women in over tight clothing and men in peculiar combinations of colours and patterns. That awful ensemble of t-shirt, three quarter shorts, socks and Birkenstocks was much in evidence.
The tensions were mostly hidden but rose nearer the surface as more alcohol flowed.
People dipped into black bins and pulled out cans and bottles.
Vaguely defined groups developed at tables, under canopies around the edges, ebbed and flowed in the middle. We all scrutinised each other. Funny how people find an observer like myself uncomfortable.
Someone not just stuffing her face or rapidly becoming legless is conspicuous and threatening. I saw them watching, whispering covertly, and didn't care!

The children bounced in ever changing configurations on the trampoline or toddled around the obstacle course of adult legs.
The hostess had worked hard. She had that pug-nosed Crankiesque physiognomy typical of some urban Scots.
We picked at barbecue food - cold stiff pasta salad, cold stiff, partially carbonised sausages. The roast pork was good if slab like.
After two hours of racket and karaoke I made my excuses and left escorted by number one son, himself at the edges of his sociability scale, and we walked home. Daughter in law, and guest,arrived a little later and after stamping feet and tears to relieve her exasperation at the actions of so-called friends, settled down to counsel said guest with the aid of yours truly, and a bottle of wine.
While I played endless games of solitaire and tried to keep us all on this side of sanity, tears and heartache flowed and years of separation were bridged. And we wondered why we had bothered with the BBQ.