I had sunk into the uneasy and aged leather armchair. It seemed to be the only thing that didn’t “fit” these surroundings. The age behind it and it’s worn features stood out from the otherwise well furnished, up-kept room I’d found myself in, so there was little wonder I felt almost at home sinking deep into the chair, and deep into thought. The time it had taken to re-fill my wine glass gave me space to contemplate a few things that were swimming the midst of my mind. My hosts, for example, were far too hurried for my liking. Too pre-occupied with getting around meeting and greeting everyone. They were in their Sunday best, something I found extremely self-righteous – these people were acting as if the Lord Himself had thrown this get together. Scurrying around and eager to show their guests off and going about the routine of “We acquired this on our trip to South Africa”, “This is what George (or whatever his name might be) brought me back after his stint in Taiwan” and so on. For hours it had gone on, and for hours it would continue. Along with the forced smiles, the half-witted jokes and laughs through gritted teeth each one of them would co-exist blissfully unaware (or perhaps plain pig ignorant) to the fact that none of them held a friendship – or more to the point, were capable of holding a lasting friendship – with any single member of this VIP guest list. I knew all of the said guests, and was held in quite close acquaintance with our hosts, but it still felt like a room full of strangers to me. As if the occasion called for a sudden façade to fall upon us all and we were to act with our wallets for fear of crucifixion otherwise.
It wasn’t the company that had made me grow so impatient and contemptuous. No, it was just the idea of how hollow this entire event had made the evening. A materialistic yet empty existence that these people inhabited. That seventeen year old wine they were so eager to force down everyone’s throat, the huge gold-plated mirror, coffee table, fireplace… everything. All of them, every single thing, screamed out to say that these people didn’t care for anyone outside of themselves, and as for their guests? Well, they were just there for show. To reiterate their social status. To strengthen their foothold in the United States of… wherever.
You could easily tell which guests our host or hostess didn’t particularly take the greatest pleasure in being around, not that it mattered of course, the landslide of pleasantries always came thick and fast and you wouldn’t get more than a few minutes alone with them before they moved onto their next victim. I could tell they didn’t even know why I was here (for that matter, nor did I) and that any explanation would go ignored if it didn’t include a reference to fine art, the opera or how big a pollutant my new car was. Not that any of this at all bothered me because it didn’t; far from it if anything. Although, there was something about these kind of people which I can not help but be drawn to. There is a nagging curiosity asking away in my mind as to what it is that drives these people. And this is the reason I find myself in these high brow, upper class dinner party situations time and time again. It’s not that I enjoy being around these people (to be frank, I’m usually the first out of the door at the end of the night) – it’s just… I don’t know. A question, something that drives me to find an answer to why these people deem it necessary to display their life’s worth at any opportunity.
More guests piled in as the evening progressed. An inseparable group of professional looking men, all suited and booted and whom I can only assume to be stock-holders or something equally dull and uninspiring, took charge of a corner which was crammed with delicate antiques and an incredibly aged grandfather clock. They wouldn’t be seen talking to anyone apart from the hostess for the entire evening, giving off an aura that they thought they would catch something if they dared do anything but. Seeing this made me realise something, it struck me how cold this lifestyle could make someone and how inhuman you could become if you had access to any of this. To avert any confrontation I started to absent-mindedly swirl the wine around in my glass and watched it create a whirlpool within itself. A smile with a cruel sense of irony unexpectedly spread across my face which I tried to hide as best I could.
So I sat there, quietly, simply observing this empty emotionless lifestyle unfold before me and thinking how lucky I must be to not have the money, to not have the wealth, to not have the ability and belongings which would lead to destroy myself with pointless sentiments and materialistic being. The things they owned had ended up owning them. And all of this, this entire train of thought, the realisation of so many cultural differences, prejudices and inhumanities, came out of me getting an empty wine glass topped-up which, it had came to my attention, was due to happen again in a minute.
