No sex please, we're caterers

01 January 2000
No sex please, we're caterers

I have always assumed that as time goes by everything gets easier. At this time of life I had always envisaged myself driving around in my executive saloon, collecting the money from various bulging tills, leaving all the worries to the many tiers of management I had carefully put into place. How wrong can you be? The past few weeks have been the most fraught, physically demanding time of my life.

All favours were called in, with a host of former colleagues coming to the rescue to cater for 800 students from the University of East Anglia, a party of 200 graduates and their relieved families, two weddings (but no funeral), three cookery demonstrations, four full houses in the restaurant and, as luck would have it, an inspection by the AA.

Graduation ball

You will understand why, strangely enough, I am relieved to have an almost blank week ahead of me, as the operation to return to normality gets under way with a vengeance.

I am not complaining, though, with the work completed and the customers satisfied I can sit back and eagerly await the morning's post and the arrival of the cheques.

I am not sure how long these riches will last, because my wife Debbie is now insisting we need a new Mercedes chiller van, just like the one that we hired to replace our 245,000-mile rusty Renault.

The graduation ball was an experience that I will never forget. Not only was it the largest event I have ever worked on, requiring the planning of a military operation, but the experience of reloading the van at 3am over fornicating couples (and threesomes) certainly sticks in my mind.

The event was held in a truly magnificent site, St Andrews Hall, which has been transformed from a magnificent church to provide Norwich's largest and most prestigious venue.

Trusty sidekick

After viewing the performers from an amazing funk band, I am only grateful I escaped before the place was struck by lightning.

My trusty sidekick throughout all of this chaos has been Matthew, a lad on work experience from school. We all hope we have unearthed another gem in this 15-year-old workaholic. However, I will ensure his placement diary has been severely censored before I hand it to his horrified teachers.

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