Twenty Questions

A good part of my life is spent on matters to do with #Fund Raising. It’s a tough old game so I’m sympathetic to anyone faced with the challenge and especially if it’s something I’d like to support.

I confess I’m not a fan of the fund raising event. I know that people like to feel they have got something for their donation but it often seems to me, that like the village fete, it’s a fate worse than death.

My inclination is to offer up the price of the ticket and not to bother going. I’m easily persuaded, a follower, and that’s how I found myself sitting in a community centre on an impossibly uncomfortable chair at a fund raising wine tasting. What I had not braced myself for was the organisers’ drive to encourage mingling. I ended up sitting at a table of people I’d never met before, exchanging pleasantries about people I didn’t know and never expected to know.

No one had said anything about the various other activities beyond swallowing wine. If they had told me there was a quiz I should have ensured I’d fallen into a pot hole in the car park. I was definitely in trouble.

Without the advantage of being able to read the quiz questions, which in itself was an irritation and a blessing in equal measure, I became a spectator:

“What is Iron Maiden?” quizzed our self appointed team captain.

“A pop group,” chirped his wife.

“I believe they are what’s known as a rock band,” said player number three.

“I think you’ll find that’s hard rock,” said the woman next to me as she ticked me off for eating the nibbles.

“It’s what’s known as hefty metal,” concluded the last of our team. That’s the hand we played and lost.

Would now be a good moment to ask my fellow players if they knew the answer to something that had been bothering me. “Who are the Beatles?”

Next came the caption competition. An impossibly small sheet of photos was handed out. No one even bothered to tell me what the photos were of.  I ploughed on hoovering up the chorizo. “Don’t eat the nibbles.” I was rebuked again. “they are there to clean your palate between tastings later on. They are an amuse-bouche.”

I doubted this. My mouth was not amused but inhaling sausage and lumps of cheese afforded me something to do to while away the evening.

Three local politicians had generously offered to be the panel in a round of “#Would I lie to you?” I should have thought the answer to this was obvious. Sadly, I called it wrong. My judgement was under serious threat now.

Wine is something I know a thing or two about. Three whites and three reds were rolled out, and to my horror, they had to be matched against the impossibly flowery descriptions on an extended crib sheet of descriptors. I plumped for descriptor number eight every time. I can’t remember exactly what description number eight had to say but the words “sharp” and “petrol” were definitely there. To my shame I called that wrong six times.

If the entire evening had been compressed into an hour it would have been excruciatingly funny. Four hours was just excruciating and as we made our way out into a pitch black car park, I could rejoice.  Finally, a level playing field. None of us could see a damned thing.

This was the moment to assert my superior path finding skills. It wasn’t that I have the nose of a bloodhound. The chorizo had seen to that. I was just desperate to get home and open a bottle of “fruity” wine.

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