The avoidable horror of sociability

I am not, as a person, noted for any real sense of 'sociability'. This, let me hurry to add, does not suggest that I by any means eschew gatherings with like-minded, highly educated personages of the correct calibre and aesthetic sensitivity. Such coteries may be informative and even pleasant in the right circumstances.

No, I am in fact referring to those 'events' that one is coerced into attending for no other reason than to appear sociable in the eyes of such intemperate personages who really have no right to form such vexatious value judgements and seek to impose them on others. It is nothing short of moral blackmail of a most disarmingly insidious character and the extrication of self from such tangled entreaties leads one to set ones sail almost to the hither shores of creative mendacity.

At Christmas time such complex and abhorrent entrapments loom over the horizon with distressing frequency and urgency. As a confirmed bachelor I am more than contented with my own company, where at least I can be certain of a modicum of decorum and probity. But no, these snooping 'busybodies' feel it incumbent upon themselves to lure me into their ghastly 'sociabilities' without respite or decency. While I fully comprehend how my mere presence would lend some much-needed gravitas and dignity to their proceedings I must of course demur.

"You just cannot be alone at Christmas" they plead. Why ever not? If I wished to follow the swinish herd with their drunken kitsch boorish televisual 'viewing' and over-indulgent frightful lard-ridden foodstuffs then I surely would. (Though I could never, ever, bring myself to don one of those gaudy and horrible paper 'crowns' that seem so essential to such gatherings).

"Think of the children" they cry. Oh but I do. It is my adamant rule to never attempt any conversation with anyone younger than an advanced post-graduate student as it would be simply pointless to try to engage with such juveniles with obviously undeveloped politesse or accomplishment. I recoil with apoplectic horror at the prospect of being entombed with mewling screeching infants whose only discernible skill is to visit the bathroom to defecate with assistance or phonetically mutilate a traditional song whose roots pass their dimmest comprehension. Yet their parents regard such 'abilities' as somehow attractive and engaging and some even go so far as to inflict 'videos' of their brutish progeny performing such monstrosities upon a terrified captive audience. They even seem to view such 'abilities' in their brood as hard evidence of a breakthrough in human evolution to an altogether higher stage. I can think of no greater horror this side of Voltaire.

It has even been tangentially suggested that I hold a soiree of my own, keeping an iron grip upon the list of those invited under a set of stringent criteria of my own personal devising. But the risk of intrusive 'gate-crashers' is simply too great; I cannot bear the thought of them belching and expelling other noxious gases in my own dear home and leaving smeared fingerprints hither and yon, even upon my crystal goblettes. I would simply have to move, there really is no alternative, and the very thought is too stressful to bear.

Since Bangkok seems to boast no obvious Lutheran church where high ritual mingles with solemn liturgy, I shall perforce be spending Christmas alone once more. I will at least be able to dine upon acceptable viands brought in by bespoke 5 star hotels, listen to a decent Sibelius or even a Mahler should the whim strike me, and peruse the current crop of learned journals at my leisure. I can at least be certain that the napkins are crisply ironed and the silver service adequately polished to a lustre not dissimilar to the celebrated vembrace of Menelaus. I will need to check the sherry bottle to establish if it requires replenishment or even replacement after last years festivities but this is not a pressing matter. There is time aplenty to finesse the critical details as needs arise. And I will do so at my own leisure, under no compulsion from the howling pack of pleading coercers who may then go forth and mix with all and sundry, should that be their wish. But in the immortal lines of Ezra Pound "Leave me out, Buster".