High Tea, Mocked Up

At first, his efforts at hosting were clumsy. He found a crumpled sheet of construction paper on the uppermost shelf of his bedroom closet. With crayons and glue, he fashioned it into a rather farcical invitation. The letters he intended for cursive, seemed to stumble across the page, and spoke little for the sophistication of their executor.  He tried in vain to remember the details that every guest relies upon. He knew, at least, to name the occasion. And as for the date and time, he noted them with excellence. When he came to the point at which foresight might well have counselled against nervous excitement, he simply forgot to identify a venue. Of course his friends, being devilishly clever (for scarcely would he tolerate them otherwise) knew well enough to find him on the appointed day and hour, ready and waiting, at the home of his parents. He wore his hair in slickened-back fashion. His suit was perfectly cornered and pressed, and his nose brought forth special distinction, for it rose fully to height of the candelabra with which he had set the scene. In point of fact, the table was bare, save some few chipped articles, which Cyrille had procured from a long-forgot box in the old house’s attic. He knew better than to go meddling in his mother’s curio, for she was an intemperate woman at the best of times, and likely to rob him of his books if he misbehaved.

His friends greeted him effusively, amidst mention of troublesome happenings about the neighborhood. Cyrille responded with a look of distaste, and expressed dissatisfaction with affairs in general. Whatever happened to respectability! He further straightened his posture, which, it will be understood, was quite a feat to behold, and he bid his guests be seated. “Now,” he said, in tones that echoed aloft, “I believe our distinguished guests have prepared remarks. I remind them that the point…”, and here he paused, “is to incite laughter. Should a remark be such in nature, that it inspires a grimace, or general disapprobation, it is the special right of the host…” (here standing), “to express displeasure as he sees fit. I am a jolly man, and wish not to have my humors mishandled by poorly-conceived punchlines. Ready, then?”

The company appeared grave, indeed.