One for the ages I think

I like for parties to be epic. But there's a limit. For example: I'd never choose to pass a kidney stone during the latter hours of my own party just for the story.

I think I expected about 30 people to show up for our flatwarming. I got to that number by adding up the number of people I know here and adding 25. My flatmate Annie made lots of food (I helped peel carrots and slice up cheese). Given our street, there were more pork-related canapes then you'd probably expect at a comparable party anywhere else. We devoted a room to Twister. We made other preparations. I wasn't worried about the venue. We have a great flat in a great area. I was only mildly worried about the music -- it's tough to find a soundtrack that graces American (hippity-hop, indie) and European (techno, electronica) sensibilities.

Things started well enough and by the time it hit midnight we had probably welcomed 50-60 people. The food was a success. Bacon-wrapped dates should be required party food. The water balloons were blessedly discarded outside at those foolish enough to kick a football around in the dark of our building's shared green. I was on the receiving end of one or two and returned the favo(u)r several times. At one point I threw one at someone standing in the doorway. Essentially I threw a water balloon into my own flat. Thankfully Maurice stayed in the way.

In hindsight maybe that flurry of activity jarred something loose. When I came back inside something didn't feel right. And no matter how much I tried to ignore it by chitchatting and distracting myself, it was a feeling I knew. Eventually I had to resign myself to my body's unbelievably poor timing and check into the bathroom for an indeterminate and painful stay on the floor. I foolishly chose the one with no lock, which meant that in addition to writhing away in the dirtiest of all places in the house -- the floor of the bathroom in and around the toilet -- I also had to keep my feet firmly planted on the door and battle party dwellers waiting for the loo, who could only assume that someone was doing something much more devious than surviving the male pain-equivalent to childbirth minus the subsequent joy and miracle of offspring.

Based on my prior experiences I didn't have much hope of rejoining the party -- I just hoped it would be over in several hours and not end up being one of those jaggedy type stones you see pictures of on the internet if you google that sort of thing, which can take weeks to pass.

But whether it was practice, determination or just luck that I emerged from one of my darkest struggles only an hour or two later I don't know. I passed out from the pain, and when I woke up I was fine, save for a little soreness. So I was back at the party until the last guest left at 6am. After that Annie and I wandered down to the Beigel Shop and indulged in a late night favorite, the Salted Beef Beigel, and a Saturday morning favorite, the Guardian Weekend Edition.

Good party. Below is a picture of the primary antagonist:

Coming in a close second was our upstairs Irish neighbo(u)r who took exception to our football banging into his car at 2:30am.