Never Mind the Tupperware

I was invited to my first ever Tupperware party. I nearly said "do I look like the kind of woman who buys bloody tupperware?" Or, "thanks, but I'd rather poke my own eyes out". But what I actually said was: "Brilliant, I'd love to come". Times is hard, ya know?

The charming hostess had been concocting nibbles all week. And I'm not talking sausage rolls and celery sticks here; this was one mouth-wateringly awesome hand-crafted canape explosion. The booze was flowing like ... well, wine ... and a hit-squad of expert mothers, who know their Tequila from their Kahlua, were whipping up and dishing out cocktails like tomorrow's children and hangovers were off the radar.

The Tupperware presentation started. We ooohed at the storage box that expands. We aaahed at the microwave jug that doesn't get a hot handle. We basked in the warm ripple of approval that washed over the crowd, as we saw just how magnificantly that happy-chopper can chop. Some mothers concentrated and referred to their catalogues; others exchanged subversive glances and sniggered into their Harvey Wallbangers.

It was drizzling, but the crowd stayed outside with the candles and ice-buckets of pink fizz. Alpha mums swaggered and laughed the loudest; Cuddly mums swapped stories of their childrens' antics; The atmosphere was warm and funny, and I found friendly people to talk to. It got dark, then chilly, and then I drove home.